


Neighbour Number

by Willsblackstag



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Anal Sex, Bottom Hannibal Lecter, Breaking and Entering, Dick Pics, Dirty Talk, Doggy Style, Drawing, Drunken Flirting, Drunken Kissing, F/M, First Time, Flirting, Heterosexual Sex, Inspired by Twitter, Jealous Will Graham, Lunch, M/M, Masturbation, Peeping, Public Blow Jobs, Public Hand Jobs, Public Masturbation, Sassy Will Graham, Teasing, Text Icons, Texting, Top Will Graham, Twitter, Voyeurism, Webcam/Video Chat Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-04
Updated: 2020-06-03
Packaged: 2020-07-30 18:35:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 28,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20101762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Willsblackstag/pseuds/Willsblackstag
Summary: Taken from ianahre's original Twitter post:AU where Will loses a bet and he has to text his number neighbour something like "fuck you number neighbour lmao". His number neighbour breaks into his house that night planning to kill him for being rude but he falls in love instead. It's Hannibal. Hannibal is the number neighbour.Number neighbour - the person who has the same number as you, but whose last digit is the next one up or downe.g.Will: 410-609-5665Hannibal: 410-609-5666





	1. The Text Message

**Author's Note:**

> Found the original idea by ianahre so hilarious, I just had to write it into something. Ended up plotting out a proper little story, but gonna take my time on this one because it's too much fun to write. LOL! Rating and archive warnings are subject to change, depending on how sexy things get.

Hannibal is in the middle of saying something deep when his phone dings. Any normal person would just continue what they were saying because message dings are as commonplace as birdsong and car horns, but not Hannibal. It takes a moment of awkward staring from the client before he regains the momentum required for his finishing piece of advice, and even when they’ve left does he still feel himself bristling at the interruption. He will have to tell Bedelia about it when he sees her later for his anger management therapy. But first, he must check his phone. A list of possible websites from which he will unsubscribe already scrolling through his mind. Because his text messages and emails share the same notification tone. Sitting down at his desk, he picks up the device and stares at the screen. One new message. He opens it.

** Fuck you number neighbour lmao **

After reading it once, he puts the phone down and feels his brow knitting at the stag statue across the room. Who would send him such a message? Fuck him? What even is a number neighbour? And why do people text in shorthand? It’s so infuriatingly lazy! Snatching up the phone, he glares again at the message. The same message that had made him lose his train of thought in the all important conclusive spiel at the end of his session. Blood beginning to boil, he opens his mobile tracking app which he last used to find the bastards who kept making those insurance scam calls, and enters the new number. By the time he reads the address thrown up by the app, his plastic suit is packed and ready to go.

Having pulled up some distance away from the address, Hannibal treks the rest of the way in his plastic suit since there’s nobody around to see him. The house he approaches is a simple cabin, but he hadn’t prepared himself for the dogs. Which is annoying, considering he had originally planned to kick down the front door and give the owner hell. But now he has to deal with a clan of animals, all of which have sharp teeth which could puncture his plastic suit. Plus, he doesn’t want them to alert their owner if he or she is upstairs – which the lights would suggest. So, before venturing too closely, he stalks all the way back to his car and opens his briefcase. Taking out his lunch box, he goes back to the house and silently climbs the steps to the porch. Sensing the animals sensing him on the other side of the door, he sets the open lunch box down and starts to pick the lock. It opens easily enough and he is instantly greeted by the sound of snuffling. _Dumb animals_. Holding the door open, he lets the dogs out before stepping back to snatch up the lunch box and toss the contents as far as he can. Once they’ve scarpered, he goes into the house and eases the door to behind him before slowly climbing the stairs.

Reaching the landing, Hannibal hears a sound and follows it down a corridor until he’s stood before a door. Adrenaline pumping at the memory of the text message, he clenches his gloved hands. _Hello, number neighbour. You’ve fucked with the wrong person_. Taking a step back, he lifts his leg and kicks the door in. There’s a shout of surprise from the other side and Hannibal steps forward, pushing the swinging door out of the way. Sat on the toilet opposite is a man in his forties, of dark hair and beard, looking very flustered as he tries to push his erect penis back into his shorts.  
“What the fuck are you doing in my house?!” he cries, snatching the toilet brush as he leaps up and brandishes it like a sword. Somewhat taken aback by the indignant anger exploding from the other man, Hannibal looks down at the toilet brush held in his direction. Looks up again with a frown.  
“You sent me a rude text message,” he states, but the other scrunches up his face in confusion.  
“_What?_”  
“You interrupted my evening with the f word and your LMAOs.”  
“L…M…” he begins to repeat, then shakes his head, curls bopping. “Jesus, you’re my fucking number neighbour?”  
Hannibal continues to frown at those blue eyes staring at him in disbelief.  
“Yes,” he answers, although he still has no idea what a number neighbour is, but prefers to sound authoritative in such situations. The toilet brush starts to lower.  
“So what, you…break into my house because I sent you that text?” the man says unsurely, eyeing him from the corners of his eyes. Like he’s trying to decide if Hannibal is crazy.  
“A very rude text.”  
“…right.”  
For a moment, neither says anything as they stare at one another across the cramped space of the bathroom.  
“It’s kinda rude of you too, though…if you think about it.”  
Frown deepening, Hannibal makes to take a step forward, but the toilet brush leaps back up, fending him back.  
“Hey, I’ve just had my evening interrupted-”  
“You were masturbating.”  
“Yes, I was. You got a problem with that?” the man snaps, bristling at the mere fact Hannibal was simply pointing out. “Well I’ve got a problem,” he continues without giving him a chance to answer. “You. And I should be calling the cops on your crazy a-hey.” He pauses. The toilet brush raising further at his face. “Did you touch my dogs?”  
“No.”  
“Well I don’t hear them.”  
“They’re outside.”  
“They’d better be, or I’m shoving this where the sun don’t shine.”  
Hannibal looks at the toilet brush again, the most times he has ever looked at a toilet brush in one evening, and suddenly remembers he was supposed to be meeting Bedelia for his therapy, but instead, he’s in some stranger’s house, being threatened with a toilet brush. The last of his anger fizzles out, for much of it had been forgotten when he was forced to listen to the man’s indignant ranting, and he turns around and makes his way back down the corridor.  
“Hey!” the other shouts after him. “Where the fuck do you think you’re going?!”  
He hears footsteps beginning to follow in his direction, and hurries down the stairs.  
“Hey!” the man continues to shout, but Hannibal has reached the front door and bolts through it faster than the dogs had. Forgetting about his lunch box, he hops off the porch and breaks into a sprint back to his car, hoping the man is not watching him.

++++

“The fuck…” Will utters under his breath as he stands on the porch, squinting after the man pegging it down the road. It had been a stupid bet between himself and a couple of friends. He never would’ve thought sending that text would lead to some psychopath breaking and entering his home. A bump against his leg makes him look down. One of the dogs has something in its jaws. Squatting down, he takes a corner of the square container. _What’s this?_ After some coaxing, the dog lets go and he finds himself looking down at a lunch box. The lid is lying nearby beneath one of the dogs, and he shoos it off before lifting the piece of plastic and reading the label stuck across the front. _Property of Dr Lecter_. He feels his brows lofting in surprise. _That nutjob is a doctor?_


	2. Emojis

Going back inside with the dogs, Will puts the lunchbox down on the kitchen table and gets his phone. Turning on the lights, he holds it up at the right angle and takes a photo. Then he opens up a new message for the number that is the same as his own except for the final digit being a ‘6’ instead of a ‘5’, pausing as he sees the ‘666’ properly for the first time and wonders how he’d missed such an obvious omen. He adds the photo. Adds the words:

**You forgot this.**

Sends. Then he puts the phone down and goes back upstairs for a shower, cursing when he is greeted once more by the sight of his bathroom door hanging off its hinges.

By the time he’s padding back to the table with a glass of water and a towel round his neck, Will sees he has a new message and picks up the phone.

**410-609-5666: Is this blackmail?**

Still holding the water, he texts one-handed and sends his response.

**$$$ for a new front door to stop nutjobs breaking and entering. Also to fix bathroom door.**

The ding is instant.

**410-609-5666: Did you just refer to me as a nutjob?**

Will lofts his brows, thumb tapping at the screen.

**You gonna come kick another door down?**

Sends that first before adding a follow-up emoji:

💸

Will waits for a reply, the pause indicative of some deliberation on the other end.

**410-609-5666: I’ll change the lock and fix the door.**

He scoffs and takes a sip of his water.

**No thanks.**

**410-609-5666: Why.**

Leaning his hip against the table, Will puts down the glass to type with both thumbs.

**Rather have the $$$ and you don't look like someone who can put up shelves.**  
**  
**As he sends his reply, he recalls the other in his weird transparent raincoat onesie thing, beneath which was a nice suit and tie. His light coloured hair in a comb-back. Looking pretty dapper for someone so batshit crazy. The ding draws his eyes back to the screen.

**410-609-5666:** 🔨🔨🔨

++++

Sat up in bed with a book in his lap, Hannibal turns to the next page and begins to read when the screen lights up again.

**Angry man: DAFUQ**

Followed by:

**Angry man: You wanna come at me, bro?!!**

Brow knitting at the excessive use of punctuation, Hannibal slips the ribbon between the pages before pulling up the keyboard on his phone.

**It means I’m good with a hammer.**

Forwarding his explanation, he taps back onto the emoji reel which he hadn’t fully utilised previously until just now when waiting for the other to respond. It’s actually quite fun, the whole thing. Scrolling past the animal and food sections, he pauses on the light bulb – because things like knives and chains are always a good idea, although he’s not sure why a lit cigarette is there – and taps his favourite icon smilingly before sending. _Yes. I’ve decided you are my favourite. But what’s this…? A tiny landscape in a frame? How charming. Like this tiny pen_. After a while of scrolling back and forth to decide his top three emojis, Hannibal realises he hasn’t received a response and scrutinises their exchange. The man must not be very adept at reading imagery, he notes to himself as he texts another explanation.

++++

**410-609-5666:** 🔪🔪🔪

Will continues to stare flatly at the wordless text without responding. Wonders if maybe his idea of blackmailing the guy wasn’t the wisest thing to do, and when the next message comes, he is expecting some kind of threat in all caps. Or another passive aggressive comment like _it means I’m good with a knife_. Which really means _imma cut you, bitch!_ Instead, he gets:

**410-609-5666: It means I'm a good chef.**

Will blinks, not quite believing his eyes, and is reminded of that feeling where you’re presented with an anomaly in some graph and have no idea as to how to begin explaining it. Straightening up, he texts back one-handed as he drags the towel onto his head and begins rubbing impatiently at his damp curls. _What game is this guy playing?_

**Can we stop with the emojis already.**

**410-609-5666: Sorry. It was next to the hammer.**

Face scrunching up, Will turns to his nearest furry friend and asks, “Was Dr his name or does it mean return _to_ his doctor?” But the Labrador continues to watch him blankly from the floor, tongue lolling as she pants.

**410-609-5666: I can come tomorrow morning.**

_What? Forget that!_

**Working**

**410-609-5666: When do you finish.**

**Late**

**410-609-5666: I can come Saturday.**

**Vets**

**410-609-5666: All day?**

Will snorts at the question. His turn to fire emojis.

🐶🐶🐶🐶🐶

Followed by HIS explanation.

**As you may recall**

**410-609-5666: I can come Sunday.**

**FFS**

“Jesus Christ!” Will cries incredulously as he sends his three letters of irritation and turns to face his four legged friends with his hands in the air. “How come I never get this with any of my dates?”

Ding. He looks at the screen.

**410-609-5666: All day?**

Choking back a laugh, Will shakes his head and tugs the towel back onto his shoulders. Putting a hand on his hip, he blinks slowly at his phone. He’s talking to a bona fide headcase. And yet. Lifting his eyes to the ceiling, he takes a breath. _Don’t do it. He broke into your house, for fuck sake_. Looks down at the lit up screen and his hovering thumb. Knows he’s already opened a can of worms the moment he’d smiled despite himself. It just came so naturally, albeit a bit weirdly, he’ll admit, and he can’t quite tell whether the man is really that useless at interpreting text messages or really, really good at doing so. If the former, then he’s probably a techno-phobe or something. If the latter, then…Will hesitates to call it flirting, per say, but… If he casts his eye over the whole conversation again – which he has done numerous times in the past when trying to locate the exact moment things went wrong in a relationship – all that talk about coming round to do DIY and being a good cook seemed a bit too coincidental by his book. He glances at the clan who continue yawning and licking their privates indifferently. _No protest from man’s best friends_. Turns his eyes back on the screen. _Fuck it_.

**I'll let you know**

Standing there by the dining table, Will lofts his brows at his own message. _What am I doing?_

Typing…

_This is a bad idea._

**410-609-5666: Okay.**

His thumb moves on its own accord.

**Nutjob**

He just had to have the last word, didn’t he? Sighing noisily through the nose, Will tosses the phone onto the settee and takes the glass back into the kitchen before returning with a beer. Making his way to the animal-draped furniture, he throws himself down between the dogs and cracks open the can before taking a huge gulp, followed by another. After his fifth, he takes a loud breath and sags against the upholstery, eyes closing halfway at the television screen. A cruise advert comes on and the dogs start barking at the horses being ridden along some idyllic white beach, but he doesn’t shush them like he normally does. Instead, he roots for his phone which has slipped beneath a furry belly lying nearby and pulls it out. Taps it. Sees he has one new message. Taps that.

**410-609-5666: You were the one masturbating.**

Will blinks, lips parting then just as quickly snapping shut as he sits up with his thumb hammering the screen.

**Wow**

Typing…

For some reason, Will feels his pulse beginning to race as he stares at the ellipses.

**410-609-5666: My thought precisely.**

Blue eyes remain glued to the text as the cogs above start to judder with the treacherous task of interpretation, and before he can stop it, they have started to replay close ups of nutjob’s face, even though he has only ever fixated on the faces of women – i.e. faces of the women he had dated in the past. Now he’s recalling how those hooded eyes fell impassively on his dick, and the zero emotions to be read from that straight but generous line of his mouth. His lips were narrow, lacking in a distinct cupid’s bow or a botox-worthy plumpness. Not that he has a particular preference. It’s just…different. _Okay, no_. Dragging a hand over his face, he gets up and paces back to the kitchen with the empty can. _No more beer for you_.

++++

Lying on his back in bed, Hannibal frowns confusedly at the ceiling. When it is clear that his phone won’t be dinging again for the rest of the night, he lifts it to his face and searches for her number. Dials it and presses it to his ear. She answers on the second ring.

“Yes?”  
“Apologies for calling at such a late hour.”  
“You missed your appointment.”  
“Apologies for that, also.”  
“There’s only ever one reason you’re not at your therapy.”  
“I thought the same, until tonight.”  
“Oh?”  
“I don’t wish to bore you with all the details, but I acted rather unexpectedly.”  
“You mean to say you didn’t murder anybody.”  
“Yes.”  
He pauses.  
“And I’m not sure why.”  
“Do you feel more in control of your temper?”  
“Not really…”  
If anything, he felt _less_ in control. Especially in regards to where that strange and rambling text message conversation had been going. Not that he really knows even now.  
“I might have found someone even more angry,” he says with a slight chuckle at the memory of the look on the man’s face when he’d kicked his bathroom door in. But Bedelia doesn’t need to know about that.  
“You don’t get commission for referring clients, Hannibal.”  
“I know. He really was angry, though.”  
“Hm.”  
“Like a rabid little animal…”  
“Mhm…”  
“With curly dark fur.”  
“Interesting.”  
“And angry blue eyes.”  
“Hannibal.”  
“They were really quite striking.”  
“Yes. Well, you can describe this creature to me during our next session.”  
“Ah, yes. Apologies. I forget the time.”  
“Goodnight, Hannibal.”  
“Goodnight, Bedelia.”  
“Well done for not killing anybody.”  
“Thank you.”

She hangs up and he realises he hadn’t mentioned the blackmail. _Well done for not killing anybody_. But he can’t understand why ever not, especially when faced with another’s audacity to threaten his position with a photo of his own lunchbox. He admits that he had originally offered his services with the intention of making it easier for him to infiltrate that dog-infested cabin should the occasion arise again for him to satisfy his rage. But then he got distracted by those ridiculous replies. All caps and exclamation marks. And he doesn’t remember the last time anyone called him _bro_. The man was so easily ruffled. He was intrigued. It was fun texting him. As he rolls onto his side in his spacious bed and closes his eyes, Hannibal finds himself hoping to do it again soon.


	3. Lunchbox

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: General description of heterosexual sex

But a week passes and Hannibal doesn’t receive a message from the angry man telling him when he can come round to fit a new lock for his front door and to put his bathroom door back on its hinges. As he compulsively checked his phone after every client, he started to despise his own behaviour and the sight of his toolkit waiting by the door until, drumming his fingers slowly against the desk, he thought about his lunchbox. He had no means of knowing, of course, that Will had been deliberating continuing their correspondence, and that the decision was in part made for him when he was asked on a date by one Margot Verger. Will had liked Alana Bloom, but Margot was sexy and charming, and made her interest in him quite clear. It was extremely flattering and quickly stirred that familiar hopeful feeling deep inside. And so, believing it to be the normal and reasonable thing to do, Will started dating Margot. He fixed the bathroom door himself before shelling out for a new lock for the front and back doors. The same ones Hannibal takes note of now as he looks through a window in the back of the cabin to see a dog-free kitchen with the door shut.

The new lock is no match for him. The man should have taken up his offer, Hannibal thinks to himself as he slips in through the back door and eases it to behind him. Glancing around the small and simple kitchen, he cannot see his lunchbox, so he starts to open cupboards and finds an abundance of dry dog kibble and treats. Pocketing a small bag just in case, he closes the door and looks up. Sat in the corner atop the overhead cupboards, is his lunchbox. Putting his hands on the counter top, he is about to lift himself up when he hears a thud from above, followed by muffled voices. Glancing askance, he tilts his head to listen. Hears a gasp and a low groan – the angry man – then a voice asking _yeah? You like that?_ Curious, he goes to the door, the bag of stolen treats already open in his hand as he carefully pushes it open. Several noses approach through the gap, panting their excitement. _The strange man is back! Hello strange man! Do you have food again?_ Shaking the treats out onto the floor, he straightens up and leaves the huddle of wagging tails to follow the voices upstairs. Stealthily climbing the steps and travelling down the corridor, he stops when he sees the sliver of lamplight cutting through the dark of the landing. Stepping to the side, he approaches the door and looks in through the gap.

The angry man is lying on his back on the bed, his hands on the hips of a female as they undulate against him, each rotation wrenching another helpless sound from his gaping lips. From this angle, Hannibal can only see the girl’s back and buttocks, but he can quite clearly observe his face. A pinched expression as though he is in pain. _I’m going to come_, he hears him gasp before the words twist into a cry of elation. Hannibal should have started making his leave right then, but instead, he continues to fixate on those lidded eyes and knitted eyebrows until the girl has hopped off and is starting to make her way towards the door.

Luckily, she only needed to use the bathroom, and managed to miss Hannibal completely as he hurriedly made his way down the stairs, past the dogs, and back into the kitchen.

++++

At first, Will thought he was seeing things. It was bad enough that he found himself randomly thinking about triple emojis whilst staring up at Margot, but then he caught a glimpse of that ridiculous plastic onesie through the gap in the door. Whilst Margot was in the bathroom, he headed down the corridor towards the stairs. He probably should have armed himself, and yet he doesn’t feel endangered. He just wants to check his brain isn’t playing tricks on him.

The first concrete sign his home has been invaded again is the empty bag of dog treats on the floor. Stepping past his furry clan as they sniff around for any missed morsels, Will pushes on the kitchen door. It opens to the sight of Dr Lecter on his knees upon the counter top, one arm raised as he reaches for the lunchbox.  
“What the-”  
Before Will can finish, the man startles at the sound of his voice and slips on the counter. Falling off, he lands on his backside with a grunt, and Will takes a step towards him, but he’s already up and bolting out the back door – lunchbox tucked tight against his side. _Will?_ He hears Margot calling after him as he hurries to the window above the sink. _Is everything okay? I heard a noise_.  
“It’s nothing,” he calls back, frowning after the figure running away from him for a second time. _Well that’s money wasted on a new lock…_

Later, rolling away from Margot, Will picks his phone up from the bedside table. Types and sends the message:

**You’ve got to stop breaking into my house.**

But there is no reply.

++++

A week later, Hannibal prepares himself for his twice delayed session by practising his blankest expression in the mirror. They can never actually fool her blue-eyed scrutiny, but it’s the airbag cushioning his dignity when it takes a rare fall.

Sitting with his legs crossed and hands clasped in his lap, he gazes idly at a corner of the ceiling as he rattles off the list of people to have come under his wrath over the last six days. It’s not a number he is proud of, but he keeps his tone chipper so as not to let on how disappointed he is with himself.

“Do you feel you have regressed in the past week?” asks Bedelia.  
“The number could be less generous,” he says instead of answering, lowering his gaze to the carpet.  
“And what do you suspect to be the cause?”  
“I can’t say,” he lies, meeting her square in the eye with the most carefree lofting of his invisible eyebrows. “Maybe I’m just having a bad week.”  
Bedelia hums as she takes a sip of her wine. Her eyes piercing. Lowering the glass, she breaks eye contact to study its contents.  
“And what about the angry man you called me in the middle of the night to discuss,” she says, eyes lifting to stare into him again. “The one with the striking blue eyes,” she adds.  
“I’m afraid I was under the influence when I made that call,” he quickly explains, eyes lowering as he wishes he had a glass of his own to fiddle with. “There is no angry man.”  
“Then, this alcohol induced vision of yours,” Bedelia says slowly in a quiet voice. “It left quite an impression on you at the time if I recall correctly.”  
“I had all sorts of things running through my mind palace, but I know to rein it in by drinking less,” he states.  
“I see.”  
A pause.  
“And the unfortunate incidents?” she asks.  
“I will do my best to rein it in also,” he answers, trying his best to look sincere as he smiles.

++++

Less than 5 hours after telling Bedelia he would rein it in, Hannibal is in the middle of strangling someone when he hears his phone going off. Ignoring it, he continues until his victim is on the verge of suffocating. Then he hears a second ding. Exhaling, he keeps the other in a headlock as he fumbles awkwardly with his plastic suit to reach his mobile. Pulling it free, he sees the notification he had once been waiting so eagerly for. He opens the message.

**Angry man: You didn’t reply. Does that mean you’ll still be breaking in as and when?**

Just as he finishes reading, another message comes through.

**Angry man: Cos that’s not cool**

Shifting his grip on his victim’s head, Hannibal fumbles to text and send a quick response with his gloved fingers.

**Busy. Go away.**

Tucking the phone back into his pocket, he tugs the zip up and wraps both arms around the head struggling to free itself. The irritation building at his loss of concentration. But he has regained his death grip now, and only needs to make one final sharp twist-

_Ding_

“I think you should check that,” gasps his victim. “It could be important.”  
Frowning at the back of the other’s head, Hannibal moves to sit on his back, pinning him to the ground as he fumbles for his phone. Opening the message, he reads:

**Angry man: Well that’s rude**

Drawing a deep breath through his nose, Hannibal uses both thumbs to rapid text his response as the man struggles to escape from beneath him.

++++

Lying on his back in bed, Will gazes at the phone screen and the word _typing…_ When the message arrives, it is not something he was expecting.

**410-609-5666: Go have sex with your girlfriend.**

Brows lofting, he almost types _haha very funny_, but then realises the other doesn’t know he and Margot have stopped seeing each other. Unless the man has added stalking to his current list of trespasses. Although Will strongly doubts this considering how easily he has caught the other out in the past. Like when he had been peeping on him that night Margot was round. Only to then fall onto his backside like a kid caught trying to get his hand in the cookie jar. For someone who breaks into people’s homes without second thought, he was ridiculously clumsy.

Unable to think of a witticism to send back, Will lowers the phone to the bed. Finds himself wondering why the man had been standing outside his bedroom door. _Pervert_. Arms folding beneath his head, he imagines himself in the other’s position, climbing the stairs and following the sounds of his and Margot’s moans. Peeping through the gap in the door to see her riding him into the bed. Did he get aroused? In that ridiculous onesie of his? Did he reach a hand down to give himself a squeeze through the plastic? Maybe it’s a fetish thing and he likes to wear it naked in his own home. Will idly wonders what it would feel like to try and masturbate with it on. Sees the man falling on his ass on the kitchen floor again, but this time wearing nothing under the plastic. _Okay, what?_ Rolling over onto his side, he closes his eyes and focuses on the nothingness behind his lids. Just plain black. Nothing else. No nutjob breaking into his house again to climb the stairs and approach the door of his bedroom. No him tugging the door open to ask what the fuck he’s doing back here again before grabbing that zip and tugging it down. Hand shoving inside and closing around his naked arousal. No hooded eyes snapping shut with a gasp.

++++

After his shower, Hannibal climbs into bed. When there had been no immediate reply to his message, he had assumed the other had taken him up on his advice. Looking towards the bedside table, he picks up the mobile phone to get to the book beneath. And pauses. 1 new message. Hesitating a moment longer, he taps the screen with his thumb. Opens it.

**Angry man: Were you spying on me when you broke into my house**

Lips pressing together, Hannibal lids his eyes at the accusation. Which is true, nonetheless.

**Don’t know what you mean.**

His defensive feathers ruffling as he watches the word _typing…_

**Angry man: I saw you**

As he tries to think of a plausible excuse – _I was looking for the bathroom?_ – the next message is received.

**Angry man: So were you?**

++++

Will sits up at the reply, his eyes on the screen and the words:

**410-609-5666: I won’t come near your house again.**

The briefest _typing…_ and then:

**410-609-5666: Please stop texting me.**

++++

No longer in the mood for reading, Hannibal lies on his side in bed, facing away from the phone. Closing his eyes, he pretends to sleep and not care about the fact that no ding comes for the longest time, suggesting the other has agreed to his request. Then it comes, breaking the silence. _Don’t open eyes, don’t open eyes, don’t open eyes._ He opens his eyes. Reaches back with an arm to grope for the phone and bring it up to his face.

**Angry man: Sorry. Didn’t mean to upset you.**

He stares at the words.

++++

Will knows that if he told anyone he is having lewd thoughts about a man who keeps breaking into his house, they would tell him he has problems, or that he should go work for Pornhub. But he had surprised himself, if he was honest, with how quickly he started fantasising about that see-through onesie. About a man who is supposed to be a doctor and therefore of some reputation, and yet who behaves like a bumbling idiot when it comes to breaking the law, even if he was trying to steal back what belonged to him – who in their right mind leaves their lunchbox behind as evidence anyway?! Which makes Will believe the man had panicked. Just like he’d panicked when Will had discovered him in the kitchen. And somehow, this makes Will feel sorry for him. Which in turn prompted his apology when he felt the other’s defensiveness in his last response. Plus…he didn’t _actually_ want to stop talking to the guy.

_Ding_

He looks at his phone.

**410-609-5666: Don’t know what you mean.**

_I’m upset, but I’m denying it._

**410-609-5666: Please leave me alone.**

_You’re upsetting me. I don’t want to talk anymore._

Lips parting, Will holds his thumb ready to reply. But the message reminds him too much of past break-ups, and he stops himself from texting anything further. Lips pressing together, he leans over and puts his phone down on the bedside table. Lies back down and rolls away.


	4. Drawing

A fortnight passes and Hannibal continues seeing his clients while Will continues to deliver his lectures. Alana Bloom is encouragingly friendly towards Will, but his heart isn’t in it to push for anything. He doesn’t even know why his spirits are so low. It’s not because Margot had broken up with him – it just didn’t work out between them. And it can’t be because he’s stopped corresponding with the mad doctor – they weren’t even friends. And yet, in those moments when he finds himself not doing anything, i.e. sitting on the toilet and gazing blankly at the door with his arms folded upon his knees, his mind wanders back to the strange way their lives had crossed. His hand reaches idly for the handle of the toilet brush. Finds it and drags the brush together with its holder in front of him. The thing is pristine, reminding him that he still needs to give his bathroom a proper clean. Resting his chin in a hand, he toys with the brush with lidded eyes. Starts to replay the first time they’d met in this very spot.

He must have been sat there for a good while because one of the dogs noses its way past the unlocked door to stand there staring at Will with tongue lolling and tail wagging. As though to check its master hasn’t fallen down the toilet.  
“Hey,” Will chuckles, lifting the brush at the dog who tilts its head curiously at the head of white bristles. “What the fuck are you doing in my house?” he says playfully with a jabbing motion. Mistaking it for a game, the Labrador darts forward and bites onto the end of the brush.  
“Oi! Bad girl!” Will snaps as he wrestles to free the brush from her jaws. “Off!”  
But the more he pulls this way and that, the more she grows excitable, eventually pulling so hard that Will has to let go before he’s dragged off the toilet seat altogether. “Bad girl!” he shouts after that wagging tail just before it slips out of sight.

++++

Hannibal is on his lunch break when his phone dings. Right hand holding a pate smeared cracker, he taps the screen with his left. The angry man has sent an image. He knits his brow. Did he leave something else at his house? He taps the notification. A photo loads of a Labrador holding a toilet brush between its teeth, looking very pleased with itself. Accompanying it are the words, **I’m gonna shove it where the sun don’t shine**

After a pause, he goes back to eating his lunch and is about to take a sip of his water when there is another ding. Taking his time with the water, he puts the glass down and picks up the phone.

**Sorry. Thought it was funny**

++++

Will glances at the clock hung up in the staff room. Lecture begins in ten. He looks back down at the phone in his hand. Types and sends the words:

**Not a fan of dogs huh**

Someone calls his name and he shoves the phone casually into his pocket before folding his arms. Grinning, he nods at the other in greeting before exchanging some idle weather-related pleasantries.  
“Shit, is that the time? I need to piss,” the woman hisses aloud before bidding him bye and hurrying off in the direction of the restroom. Glancing again at the clock, he pulls the phone from his pocket. Thinks for a moment, then rapid texts and sends.

++++

He has just stood up from the desk when he receives another alert. Although he shouldn’t keep his client waiting, he also wants to know what the other has sent now. Without picking up the phone, he taps the new message.

**So I’m thinking of installing a new security system. Are there any you can’t break into?**

Beginning to smile despite himself, Hannibal continues on his way to the door.

++++

Due to a cancellation, there is a rather large gap before the final client of the day, but Hannibal doesn’t mind. Sat at his desk, he has been busy drawing after the last client had left. At first, it was just scenes of Greek mythology. Then he started to shade in a beard. Add some curls. Stroked the fine nib along the contours of a bare torso – though if he wishes to capture the tensing of the muscles in his body just before ejaculation, he would have to start a new drawing. Leaning back with a tilted head, he observes his work in progress. Granted he never did see the man’s penis properly, but if the woman’s cries of pleasure had been anything to go by, he imagines the other must be quite well equipped. Normally, Hannibal is in tune with the sound of anyone approaching his door, but tonight he has his classical music on low and is feeling rather relaxed. Which is why it comes as a genuine surprise when someone, out of nowhere, kicks down the door of his workplace.

The sound of something colliding against heavy wood had coincided with a determined cry followed immediately by a suppressed groan of pain as the intruder stumbles forward into the room. Stooped over, the man curses under his breath as he holds onto his right leg before realising he is being watched. Hands moving to his hips, he straightens up casually and clears his throat as he looks back over his shoulder, heavy brows lofting as though with surprise that he’d actually managed to inflict damage on the door. Then, he moves his blue eyes onto Hannibal.

“Hey,” he utters in greeting, eyes leaving him to look at his surroundings. Hannibal assesses the damage to his door.  
“What are you doing here?” he asks, watching the other pacing slowly towards him.  
“You haven’t replied to my texts,” says the man with his hands in his pockets and his eyes on the armchairs as he passes them by.  
“So you break into my workplace?”  
“Well, it’s kinda rude to ignore people,” he answers, lifting his eyes to meet Hannibal’s gaze, a faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. He pauses to look at a framed picture on the wall. He is stood close enough for Hannibal to smell his cologne.  
“You changed numbers or something?” he utters, pretending to study the picture.  
“We only met because of our numbers.”  
“Yeah.”  
Hannibal sees those blue eyes lidding in thought before the man turns on his heels to face him. Brows lofted once more.  
“So whatcha been doing?”  
Suddenly, Hannibal grows conscious of the sketches on his desk, but he maintains eye contact as the other approaches. He just about manages to discreetly drag a paper over the sketch in front of him when the man stops in front of the desk and spots half of his own face.  
“You drew me?” he asks curiously as his hand reaches out to touch the blank sheet. Hannibal watches it carefully pull away and reveal the nude beneath before following the latter with his eyes as the other brings it closer to himself for a better look. Twiddling a pencil somewhat anxiously between his hands, he watches the man blink at the drawing.  
“Wow. I’ve got a big-”  
But Hannibal has leant forward and snatched the paper back before he can finish.  
“It’s good,” he hears the man say, but keeps his eyes downcast as he tugs open a drawer.  
“Don’t tease me,” he utters under his breath as he shoves the paper inside and pushes it hurriedly to a close.  
“I’m not.”  
A pause as he looks up reluctantly to find the other stood there with his hands in his pockets, a neutral expression on his face as he watches his desk.  
“Why’d you stop texting?” he asks, quieter than before. Hannibal resumes his composed sitting position. Hands picking up the pencil.  
“Because there was nothing to say,” he answers simply, lofting his own brows with feigned indifference.  
“Yeah, well. I guess you got your lunchbox back,” says the man with a shrug.  
“Correct.”  
“Shame. I kinda liked it.”  
Hannibal slowly looks up to see the other casually glancing askance.  
“I got it from QG.”  
“Not the lunchbox,” he says flatly. “The blackmail.”  
“Ah.” _It’s a really nice lunchbox._  
“Though,” he adds, meeting his gaze, “it is a nice lunchbox. Got your name on it and everything.” That twitch again at the corner of his mouth.  
Not quite knowing why, Hannibal swallows. Keeping his chin lifted, he glances down and parts his lips without really knowing what to say when the man turns around, leaving him with a view of his backside.  
“So how about it,” he says, arms folding as he looks back at him over his shoulder. Hannibal pretends he had been reading the time off the desk clock which just happens to be really close to the other’s shapely behind.  
“How about what?”  
“You draw me like one of your French girls.”  
A smile. Mischievous and charming. Without realising, he has stopped twiddling the pencil between his hands.

++++

“Got the whole Titanic setup right there,” he continues to say chirpily, facing the other end of the room.  
A pause.  
“Are you calling my chaise lounge a tragedy?”  
Will feels his brow knitting. _What?_ He half turns to meet that blank expression.  
“No, I’m referring to that scene in the…”  
_He hasn’t seen the movie._  
“Anyway,” he says instead, turning back round to face the desk, “the protag is a really talented artist. Like you.”  
He realises he is still grinning. Because, even though he did just kick the door down to the guy’s workplace, he wants to come across friendly and approachable. Nothing wrong with that. But when hooded eyes look down to study the pencil the man has spent the last ten minutes fiddling with, Will is worried he has outstayed his welcome until he hears the quiet utterance of “thank you.” The defensively shy response is unexpected, and to help distract from the sudden awkwardness in its discovery, Will has a joke about his doodled penis on the tip of his tongue.  
“Uh…Dr Lecter?”  
Will turns at the sound of the voice to see a well-dressed young man leaning unsurely through the doorway. His folded arms shift, not because he’s bothered by the other’s presence or anything. Or jealous. Why would he be? The guy’s about what, late twenties, early thirties? Upper-middle class with the whole scarf and coat and polished shoes. Where has he just come from, a dinner party? Wait. Has he come to take _the doctor_ out to dinner?  
“I’ll be with you in just a moment, Mr Bradshaw. I was just saying goodbye to Mr…”  
At the prompt, Will faces the other.  
“Graham,” he says, sticking out a hand because that’s the done thing. Not because he’s curious how his hand feels. Standing up, the other shakes his hand. Firm but gentle. Will swallows and shoves his hand back into its pocket as the man walks him to the door.  
“Bit young, isn’t he?” he utters under his breath to the doctor.  
“He’s my client.”  
“Oh.”  
Finding himself stood at the doorway opposite the patiently waiting gentleman, Will needs to think of something to say, fast.  
“I can come back and fix this,” he says, tipping his head at the door currently hanging askew off its hinges. He’s actually quite impressed he’d managed to kick it down. Bastard quality door.  
“I should hope so.”  
Spoken without giving anything away.  
“Just let me know,” he says casually despite the urge to throw a fistpump, client or no client. “I’m usually free in the evenings.”  
“Very well.”

Exchanging polite smiles with the young man, Will strolls into the waiting room, hearing the doctor apologise for keeping him waiting, and asking whether the client would prefer to reschedule due to the unfortunate situation with his door. Before he leaves, Will hears the other say it’s not a problem considering this is the last appointment and he doesn’t expect there to be anyone coming now. Ear twitching at this, Will almost considers hanging around and tiptoeing up to the doorway to peep on them if he hears anything weird going down, but no – it’s fine. He’s already been given the go ahead. That is, to come back and fix the door. Spend a bit more time chatting shit and, yeah. Sounds good. Grinning to himself, Will takes one last glance back at the open doorway before taking his leave with a little bounce in his steps.


	5. Fruit

Hannibal is confused about his feelings towards the angry man. Or rather, Mr Graham. It had been undoubtedly rude of him to have kicked down the door to his consulting room when he could have just knocked like a normal person. But he assumes the other was simply treating him to a taste of his own medicine. Hopefully they will be moving on from this door abuse soon. But, doors aside, he cannot deny that he was glad the other had approached him. Although, he had nevertheless been caught off guard with the drawings and did not enjoy the faint heat of shame that had crept under his collar. Not because of the nature of the drawings. But because of the way the man had looked at him. Despite his usual self-confidence and cool composure, there was something about the way the other watched him that made him uneasy. And nobody made him feel uneasy. Not like that, anyway. Perhaps it was just that he seemed unpredictable. A man with a face that women no doubt found attractive was intruding on his workplace and pacing his domain with unnecessary swagger and a half aggressive, half flirtatious attitude. Maybe he wants to become a client but is too proud to ask, Hannibal muses to himself. Because there’s obviously something on his mind. Either way, maybe he’ll find out soon.

That evening, Hannibal pays Bedelia a visit. He had brought something he had prepared at home especially and after eating, they had settled on her comfortable furniture, an armchair each, and were enjoying a second glass of wine when Hannibal remembered the movie the man had mentioned and asked Bedelia if she had seen it. The answer was no, and, humouring him, she agreed to put it on if he could find it on her television. He was distracted at first by some adverts for a new cooking documentary, but eventually found what he was looking for. They then proceeded to watch the movie without speaking and only paused it once when Bedelia ventured into the kitchen for more wine. After it had finished, Hannibal had felt restless, and asked Bedelia if she would continue to humour him.  
“As long as you are not asking me to let you stay the night.”  
“No, of course.”  
Pause.  
“But it does require you to undress.”  
Bedelia had arched an eyebrow at him then.  
“Oh?”  
“I wish to draw you like he did in the movie.”  
She had taken a sip of her wine in consideration.  
“If you don’t mind,” he had added whilst waiting for an answer, and she had tilted her head at him with a slight narrowing of her eyes.  
“And what is it that you wish to gain from doing this?” she had asked, as though she could see the restlessness inside him.  
“Affirmation,” he had answered simply, without elaborating. Bedelia had watched him for a moment longer with her brows lofted.  
“We can call it art therapy,” he had offered with a polite smile, and she had hummed thoughtfully, carefully, before leaning back in her chair and taking another sip of wine.  
“If it will stop you strangling another person tonight,” she had finally said. “Myself included.”  
“I would never do such a thing unless it was specifically asked of me,” Hannibal had said amiably.  
“Then know that it will not be,” Bedelia had responded flatly over the rim of her glass. “Ever.”

++++

Screwdriver in hand, Will leans closer to take a good look at the door hinge.  
“You watched it yet?” he asks.  
“The movie?”  
“Yeah.”  
“I have.”  
“Pretty sexy, right?” he says, turning his face to grin at the man sat at his desk. The doctor looks up with a lofting of his invisible eyebrows and blinks.  
“Whatever floats your boat.”  
“Well, I don’t mean the part with all the people dy…wait,” Will pauses speaking to scrunch his face up at the other. “Was that pun intentional?” he asks before turning back to the hinge with a scoff. “Cos that was awful.”  
“I enjoyed the scene.”  
“Yeah?”  
“The protag is a good artist.”  
“Told you. Hey,” he says, looking over again. “Would you mind giving me a hand? I just need someone to lift the door while I put the new screws in.”  
“Of course.”  
“Thanks,” Will utters, lips pulling into an appreciative grin as he watches the man push back in his chair and stand up from the desk. Hands habitually smoothing down the front of his waistcoat as he walks over. Eyes not quite meeting Will’s. He stops beside him and Will pauses tapping the screwdriver against his palm to gesture at the door.  
“If you could just lift it up there, that’d be great,” he says, and the doctor does as requested. “Let me know if it gets heavy.”  
“It’s fine.”  
“Alright.”  
Will falls to the task of putting in the new screws and screwing them into place on the hinge.  
“So it was sexy, right?” he repeats the question with a curl to the corner of his lips.  
“It was.”  
“I bet the actor got aroused in real life.”  
“I wouldn’t be surprised.”  
Huffing in agreement, Will slots the next screw into place.  
“So did you get a semi drawing me?”  
The door dips and he glances askance to see the doctor shifting his grip. Hooded eyes downcast as a furrow appears in his brow.  
“Do you need to put it down?” he asks, brow raising.  
“It’s fine,” the man utters somewhat defensively, and Will guesses he has made the other uncomfortable with his question. Turns his eyes back on the hinge.  
“What did you think of the car scene?” he asks casually.  
“It was a very nice automobile.”  
“Right,” Will chuckles. “You ever done it in a fancy car?”  
A side glance at that blank expression watching him as though to say _why are you asking?_  
“Of course you have,” Will answers for him, focusing on the motion of the screw as he turns the screwdriver. “In a Bentley on your way to the opera,” he scoffs.  
“On the way back,” corrects the doctor, and Will makes a sound of approval.  
“Nice.”  
“And yourself?”  
“Plenty of times,” he says with a frown at the door. “Maybe not in a Bentley.”  
He looks over and catches the other glancing at his watch. Tries not to sound stung as he turns his eyes back on the hinge.  
“I’m almost done,” he utters.  
“There’s no rush.”  
“Dogs will need feeding I guess.”  
“Won’t your girlfriend do that?”  
“I don’t have a girlfriend.”  
When the doctor doesn’t say anything immediately, Will glances over, meeting that dark gaze briefly before moving his eyes away again.  
“Didn’t work out,” he explains.  
“I’m sorry to hear that.”  
“Is what it is.”  
He continues to work on the door whilst the doctor holds it in place, and for a moment neither of them speak. When he has finished, Will steps back and nods at the other to indicate he doesn’t have to support the door anymore. Hands resting on his hips, Will thinks fast for a reason to see him again.  
“That’s that,” he says. “Good as new.”  
“May I?” asks the doctor, and Will moves out the way as the other slowly opens and closes the door a couple of times.  
“What, you don’t trust I’ve done it right?” he utters, brow raising again.  
“It’s always good to double check,” answers the other as he opens the door and Will licks his lips before tilting his head and turning his face in the man’s direction.  
“Say, I was wondering if you teach people,” he begins to say.  
“Teach people,” echoes the doctor as he regards Will curiously, his hands slipping into the pockets of his trousers.  
“How to draw?”  
A blink from those hooded eyes.  
“You wish to learn?”  
“Yeah,” Will answers casually, shoving his own hands into his trouser pockets. “I mean, I dunno how busy you are.”  
“I can make time.”  
“Only if it’s not gonna be a hassle or anything,” says Will with a polite frown despite the beginning smile deep down.  
“Not at all,” says the doctor, his lips turning up ever so slightly at the corners. “I can do tomorrow evening.”  
_That soon?_ Brows lofting, Will forgets to conceal both his surprise and excited anticipation.  
“Tomorrow evening sounds good.”  
“Would you like me to write down my address for you?”  
“Sure.”  
Will stays half a step behind as he follows the doctor to his desk, only so he can observe him from behind. Dressed impeccably in his shirt and waistcoat. His back ramrod straight and offsetting the shapely slope of his rear end in those tight tailored trousers._ I mean, it’s just there._ He wasn’t actively seeking it out or anything. Then the man leans down to write and Will blinks at the backside in question, glances around the room to justify to the framed paintings the blameless act of looking at something that presents itself before you, and goes back to staring at the other’s ass. Head tilting slightly to the left. _Guess he works out_. An appreciative frown appears on his face at the thought of the doctor doing squats.  
“Here you go,” says the other as he turns from the desk. Will straightens up and plasters an innocent grin on his face as he takes a hand out his pocket to receive the post-it-note.  
“Thanks,” he says, pausing when his eyes fall on the scrawl of the doctor’s handwriting. I mean, he can _just about_ read it, but…  
“Is it hard to read?” the man asks, and Will squints harder at the paper.  
“No, it’s alright,” he utters unsurely and the doctor turns back to the desk. He takes a little longer this time, probably to make sure his letters are formed perfectly. Which gives Will that much longer to contemplate his buttocks.  
“Here.”  
Eyes darting back up, Will takes the new post-it and gives it a quick read.  
“Better?”  
“Perfect.”  
He folds and pushes the paper into his breast pocket before moving to fetch his coat draped over the back of an armchair.  
“So will I need to bring anything?” he asks as he pulls on his coat, looking over to see the other perching on the front of the desk, his hands curled over the edge.  
“I should have enough, but you may wish to purchase your own sketchbook and drawing pencils,” he answers then pauses briefly before adding, “thank you for returning to fix the door.”  
“When are you coming round to do mine?” says Will, grinning lopsidedly at the other as he buttons up. The doctor tilts his head, somehow making him look – for lack of a better word – adorable. _What the fuck? He’s a fifty something year old man. With impaired social skills_.  
“You wish to change your locks again?”  
“I’m just messing,” he says dismissively, tugging his coat collar into place before shoving his hands into the pockets. _Like I’d try to keep you out_. The doctor walks him to the door and holds it open for him.  
“See you tomorrow,” he says.  
“Tomorrow,” Will repeats, smiling as he steps outside and lifts a hand in casual goodbye. Turning around, he hears the door easing shut gently behind him, and feels the smile deepening at the prospect of turning up at a different one tomorrow. Except he won’t be kicking it down this time.  


++++

Stood at the double doors, Will presses the doorbell and runs a hand through his hair. His first impression when he had turned onto the neighbourhood was that the doctor lived in a nice area with some very fancy looking houses. But this didn’t exactly come as a surprise. After he’d parked up and got out with his carrier bag of art stuff – he was a bit baffled by the variety of drawing pencils and sketchbook sizes and wasn’t entirely sure he had purchased the right ones – he had stood there on the pavement, casting an eye over the mansion of a home with its imposing Victorian portico.

The right door suddenly opens and Will sees the doctor dressed in his shirt and waistcoat combo. Hair combed back immaculately.  
“Mr Graham,” he says in greeting, reminding Will that they still don’t know one another’s first names.  
“Dr Lecter,” he returns.  
“Would you like to come in.”  
The man steps back and Will enters the house with a rustling of his carrier bag.  
“Nice place,” he says, looking over the elegant albeit somewhat dark décor.  
“Thank you,” replies the doctor as he catches up to lead Will into a room. “This way.”

The living room, or what he presumes to be the living room, if not just a living room amongst others, is very ornate. If not for the sunlight currently coming in through the tall windows, Will imagines the dark colour scheme to be more often than not lit up by lamplight.  
“I have rooms with more space, but I’m afraid this one lets in the most light,” explains the man as he inspects the set-up, his hooded eyes moving from the window to the two drafting tables positioned to make the most of the natural lighting.  
“It’s fine,” says Will, not minding the size of the room in the slightest. “So you do teach people how to draw,” he adds, gesturing to the drafting tables with a rustle.  
“No. I purchased another table and had it delivered before you arrived.”  
“Oh. Well you didn’t have to go to the trouble-”  
“It’s no trouble.”  
The doctor turns his face to look at Will amiably.  
“Shall we?”

++++

Will was asked to choose an object he would like to draw and there were all sorts of ornaments in the room – many of them horns of some kind – but they weren’t exactly beginner level, so the doctor led him to the kitchen and told Will to have a look around and feel free to choose anything he felt comfortable with. As a joke, Will had paced over to the fancy dining table and picked up a banana from the fruit bowl before lofting his brows at the man, but the other had only responded with “good choice”. Will ended up following the doctor back to the living room, still holding the banana and half tempted to poke that backside with its blunt end just to see how the other would respond. But he didn’t.

The fruit bowl has been placed on another table in front of them. The doctor has sat down on his stool before his drafting table and is waiting for Will to join him. Stepping up to the already crammed bowl, he shoves the banana in between some plums. Looking up, he sees the other watching the bowl with displeasure and pulls out the banana.  
“Wrong place?”  
“Hm.”  
“Where do you want me to put it?” Will asks, pressing his lips together to stifle a smile.  
“Maybe leave it out,” says the doctor, seemingly oblivious to the blatant innuendo. “There is not enough room.”  
“Uh huh,” Will utters to himself with a lofting of his brows. _Don’t. Say. Anything_. Looking around for somewhere to put the banana, he ends up leaving it on the settee before moving to sit down on his own stool.  
“Are you happy with your view of the fruit bowl?” asks the other as he picks up his pencil.  
“I guess,” says Will, glancing over at the man. “It’s a fruit bowl.”  
“Due to our differences in angle, your fruit bowl will look very different to mine,” the doctor explains patiently. Their tables are positioned side by side, their stools in close proximity to one another. Will folds his arms and leans towards the man. He squints at the fruit bowl in front.  
“Well if all you’re drawing are grapes, I want to swap places.”  
“You consider them not to be a challenge?” asks the doctor. Still leaning over on his stool, Will glances at the other from the corners of his eyes. He is close enough to drown in the man’s cologne and finds he doesn’t mind.  
“It’s a bunch of circles. How hard can it be?”  
Thin lips lift in a smile as hooded eyes glance away.  
“Show me,” he says, standing up so Will can take his seat.  
“Alright,” Will utters, moving across and inhaling noisily as he rolls up his shirtsleeves. He is aware of the doctor standing at his elbow, observing. Picking up the pencil, he lifts his eyes to that amused countenance and lofts his brows. “Watch this.”

++++

Somehow, in-between actually giving the drawing a go and trying to avoid being caught watching the doctor’s face too closely whenever he leaned in to show him how to adjust or correct a line, Will loses track of time.  
“I believe the hour is up,” says the other suddenly, and Will has to stop the disappointment from surfacing too obviously on his face. He was enjoying himself, and it looked like the doctor was, too. “Are you satisfied with your progress?”  
Will looks flatly at his horrendous drawing. He glances askance at that polite, yet amused smile.  
“Are you?” he asks back sardonically. The doctor leans across in a show of judgement and Will silently breathes in more of that pleasant cologne.  
“In my view, it’s rather-”  
“Shit.”  
“That is your word, not mine.”  
“But you’re thinking it.”  
That tilt of his head again.  
“…maybe.”  
“Wow,” Will laughs, arms folding as he watches that curl at the corner of the other’s mouth. “Thank you for the vote of confidence. Do you shower all your students with such encouragement?”  
“You are my only student,” corrects the doctor as he sits properly in his stool. “And it serves you right for being over confident.”  
“Yeah,” Will scoffs. “That unruly bunch sure taught me a lesson today.”  
“But in all seriousness,” says the man, drawing Will’s attention with his thoughtful tone, “it is good to be dissatisfied. That way, you are always looking to better yourself.”  
“Is that what you are?” Will asks offhandedly. “Dissatisfied?”  
When he doesn’t get a response, he looks over to see the doctor regarding the fruit bowl with a faintly troubled expression.  
“I…” he begins to say, “strive to make my own improvements, yes.”  
A brief pause before the doctor suddenly stands.  
“Would you like a coffee?” he asks.  
“Sure, if you’re making one,” Will answers, eyes lifting to watch the other looking distractedly towards the doorway.  
“Sugar?”  
“Just milk, thanks.”  
“I won’t be long.”  
“Sure.”  
He watches the other walk out of the room then slowly stands up himself, joints popping as he stretches. Arms refolding, he starts to pace around, looking at the décor. When he has done a full circle, he sits down on the doctor’s stool and idly opens the drawer of his drafting table. There is a sketchbook inside, and Will takes it out and rests it on the angled surface. A loose sheet slips free from the pages and falls to the floor. Bending down, Will picks it up.

++++

Struck with the sudden urge to invite the other to stay for dinner because he has enjoyed the company thus far, Hannibal considers the ethical implications of lying about his dishes. Would a simple _nothing here is vegetarian_ suffice? It would be unfortunate if the man turns out to be a vegetarian, but he can easily rustle something up and make it look equally as impressive, even without the special ingredients. Although, he muses, he could be out of zucchini. With all these thoughts going through his mind, he forgets whether the man had said yes or no to sugar, and starts walking back to the living room.

The smile vanishes from his face when he recognises the loose sheet in the other’s hands.  
“Who’s this?” he asks, blue eyes looking up amusedly. Lips pressing together, Hannibal strides over and snatches the drawing from his hands. Out of reflex, he almost apologises for his rudeness, but his temper has already started to rear its head. He had promised Bedelia nobody would see it. Why didn’t he hide it better?  
“Did you want sugar with your coffee?” he asks instead.

++++

“Just milk, thanks,” Will repeats himself, watching the man walk out again, only no longer at ease. Hand slipping onto the back of his neck, he berates himself under his breath for poking around in other people’s things even whilst he swallows in disappointment at the implications of the dated sketch. Maybe the woman was a model, he muses. But the doctor had reacted far too defensively for her to have been just that. Now he wonders if there are other sketches. Eyes falling back on his own terrible drawing, he starts to feel a bit silly. And a bit sad that he seems to have upset the other. Standing up, he walks towards the doorway and out into the quiet of the mansion. The sound of a coffee machine can be heard and he follows it to the kitchen.

He finds the doctor stood at the coffee machine, staring stonily at the cups. Arms folding, Will starts pacing towards him.  
“If life drawing is on the cards, I’m definitely coming back,” he says, forcing a chuckle.  
“One step at a time,” says the doctor, and, encouraged by his response, Will continues to draw near.  
“I dunno,” he says with a shrug, “I might be shit at drawing grapes, but give me a nice pair of breasts-”  
“It would be a good idea to do some drawing before the next session,” says the other lightly as he turns to offer Will one of the cups.  
“You’re giving me homework?” he asks, taking it and leaning back against the edge of the counter top.  
“Practise makes perfect,” says the doctor with a forced smile, taking a sip of his coffee before starting to walk away. Taking a sip from his own cup, Will follows after him, determined to dispel the cloud that has fallen over their heads. Although, the man almost manages to do that himself when, clearly preoccupied still, he sits on the banana Will had left on the settee. The sound of the peel splitting was muffled by the doctor’s trousers, but Will’s snort could hardly be contained. With a frown, the man had excused himself as he stood up and left the room, leaving Will eyeing the mushy remains on the upholstery and snorting this time into his coffee at the thought of being sat on by the other and his firm buttocks. But no sooner does the image come to his mind does the snort fall short. Swallowing coffee that is too hot, Will grimaces as he recalls the naked sketch of the woman and tells himself to stop it. That he’s probably been reading it all wrong.

When the man returns with a cloth to clean up the mess, Will can’t help looking at the damp patch on his trousers when he bends over, and gulps his coffee a touch too quickly. He ends up choking and coughing for a good solid minute as the man abandons his cleaning to whack him repeatedly on the back. Catching his breath, Will holds up a hand.  
“I’m good,” he wheezes. “I’m good.”

By the time the doctor has walked him to the door, some of the ease that had grown in their time spent drawing together had returned, and despite now being the one unsettled by new questions, Will is glad to see the man smiling as he bids him goodnight. When the door shuts behind him, he walks back to the car with his hands in his coat pockets, his own smile fading with each step. _I’m an idiot_.


	6. Video Call

In the week running up to the next drawing session, Will keeps himself busy with work to avoid thinking too much about how he has probably made a bit of a fool of himself. Not that the doctor seems to have noticed. At home, he tries to do his homework and practise drawing like the other had said, but finds he just ends up doodling crude cartoons of bananas and dicks. Then the naked woman from the sketch he’d seen. A bunch of childish circles and lines dragged along paper with a mix of feigned apathy and irrational yet niggling jealousy. Beside which he adds a caricature of his mentor. An egg with a side parting. Two dots for eyes with frowning eyebrows above to match the downward slope of his mouth. And a speech bubble with the words _I peel bananas with my butt_ inside. Exhaling sharply, he leans back, tossing the pencil onto the paper and stretching his arms above his head before folding them upon the table. Chin resting on top of them, he stares idly at his drawings. Maybe he’ll just text the guy and say he doesn’t want to continue. But no sooner had the thought come to mind, does he receive a text. Unfolding his arms and sitting up, he reaches for his phone – sees it’s a message from the doctor – and taps the screen.

**Banana Bum: How is the home study coming along?**

Will scoffs, glancing down at his dicks and bananas. Breasts and eggheads.

**It’s coming.**

And it has been, since he saw the sketch. He usually has the same handful of things to beat off to, but now he finds his mind straying to thoughts of the doctor having sex with the woman in the drawing on the chaise lounge in his office. He doesn’t know why exactly. Only that he likes imagining that impassive face twisting with uncontrollable desire.

**Banana Bum: May I?**

He knows the man is referring to taking a photo and sharing it via text or email, but, driven by jealousy and irritation at himself for reacting this way over someone he barely knows, Will is spoiling for some provocation.

**May you what.**

**Banana Bum: See.**

Refolding his arms on the table, he leans down and once more rests his chin upon them, eyes falling to a half close as he gazes at the word. Without thinking, he slips a hand down to undo the button on his trousers. Pushes past the band of his boxers and starts to masturbate. It almost surprises him how quickly he grows erect at the thought of the doctor watching him pleasure himself. How the shock and disgust would pinch that expressionless face. Maybe even anger. Jaw flexing, he picks up the phone with his free hand and starts to type.

**I haven’t finished**

Swallowing at the sight of his own sent message, he picks up pace, fingers closing tighter around himself. Lips parted in anticipation of the alert. The ding that rings so loud and clear in the quiet of his kitchen.  
  
** Banana Bum: Show me.**

He feels a sudden flutter in his chest, and swallows again convulsively, hand still going as the pleasure builds. Could he do it? Send a photo of him jacking off? Just to see how the other would react? Even if he might shun him afterwards? The first thoughts excited him, but the last remains with him the most so that after his abrupt ejaculation, he immediately berates himself inwardly for having even entertained such a depraved idea. And also for decorating the underside of his kitchen table with come. _Jesus. Get a grip_. Sighing through the nose, he tucks himself away and types a quick response before getting up to fetch the kitchen roll.

**I’ll show you later.**

++++

Hannibal greets Mr Graham with a smile of welcome. He has been looking forward to their second drawing session, and is curious to see if there has been any improvement made since their last. As he steps aside to let the man in, he notices a somewhat subdued air in the other’s demeanour and gait as he makes his way ahead of Hannibal towards the living room. Perhaps his work has taken its toll this week, he muses privately with a tilt of his head as he follows after. Entering the room, he finds his student already sat at his drafting table. A mild frown creasing his brow as he looks upon the object of their lesson today.

“I see you are feeling somewhat apprehensive with my choice for a starter,” he says, striding over to sit himself at his own table. “But I prefer to set the bar high,” he adds, smiling amiably across at the man as he picks up his pencil. “And I believe you will rise to the challenge.”

The furrow deepens in the man’s brow, and he continues to stare at the split pomegranate. A movement draws his eyes down into the other’s lap. Hands toying slowly but restlessly with the pencil.

“But if it makes you uncomfortable, we can always start with something else,” he eventually says to break the silence. It’s not a good trait for a teacher to give in so easily, but he can see something is on his student’s mind. Perhaps now he will admit he wishes to become a client.

++++

Stirring himself, Will snatches a breath through the nose and straightens his back. The pencil clutched purposefully in his right hand.

“It’s fine,” he says, eyes on the pomegranate in front of them. “I like a challenge.”

“I’m glad to hear.”

The doctor proceeds to ask Will how he intends to approach drawing the pomegranate, and Will admits he has no fucking idea, which is apparently not an adequate answer. After he utters some rough ideas, the other explains to him the best way to begin, and off they go, drawing the fruit with its annoying abundance of seed. It’s repetitive, drawing each one, but it helps to make him feel a bit more settled, perched on the stool and determinedly not looking whenever the man leans over to inspect his progress. He doesn’t like feeling like this. Uptight and unable to be himself. Maybe if he starts talking crap again, it will help him ease back into his casual confidence, he thinks to himself.

“Been doing any more breaking and entering recently?” he asks idly.

No response. He glances askance to find those hooded eyes studying the fruit on the table.

“Re-enacting scenes from Titanic?”

He watches for a change in the other’s expression, but there isn’t one.

“Wish I was,” he continues to utter casually, turning his eyes back on his drawing.

“I shall assume you’re not referring to the screaming and drowning.”

Encouraged by the response, Will allows a lopsided smile to lift his lips. Head tilting, he is ready to pass some comment promoting his own heterosexual prowess – in part to create the impression of stupid friendly banter between a couple of guys. But in part, also, to mask the undeniable underlying homoeroticism he harbours from a place deep down that grows terribly agitated whenever he is within the other’s proximity.

“I’ve had girls scream and drown in my-”

“It’s not like that.”

Will pauses mid-drawl at the interruption, but continues to scratch another seed onto paper with the tip of his pencil.

“…like that?” he says quietly, trying not to reveal his eagerness to hear the man elaborate.

“We are not seeing one another. The woman and I.”

_Oh?_ Will feels his brows lofting.

“Nothing wrong with a casual-”

“Neither are we sexually involved.”

Waiting for an elaboration, Will doesn’t say anything as he continues to draw. The longer the pause, the more it feels to him as though the other is debating whether or not to continue speaking. To reveal what’s on his mind.

“She’s someone I see to go over things with,” the doctor says after a while.

“What kinda things?” Will asks, voice remaining quiet and as unobtrusive as possible for all his brimming curiosity.

Looking to the side, he sees the pencil has stopped moving on paper.

“My anger,” the man eventually answers, returning to his sketching of lines as though to detract from the weight of his confession. Hooded eyes fixated on his perfect rendition of the pomegranate. The lack of eye contact signalling to Will his unease even whilst he continues to share. So he hums in acknowledgement. In gentle encouragement for him to continue.

“I asked after watching the movie together if she would mind allowing me to draw her,” says the other thoughtfully.

“You were feeling inspired?” Will chuckles, low and soft. His drawing quite forgotten as he continues to watch that face, fascinated by the tiny, barely noticeable shifts. Currently, the man appears to be wrangling another inner debate even whilst his hand moves against the paper.

“I was curious,” he answers, slightly hesitant, and when Will next speaks, the volume of his voice has dropped a further notch to accommodate this sense of being made privy to a secret.

“About what…?”

“Whether I would…”

A beat.

“Spring a boner?”

Thin lips press together and Will knows he has spoken too quickly. He also realises he has been leaning towards the other, but doesn’t pull back just yet. His eyes still on that countenance now looking faintly pinched.

“Well, why wouldn’t you?” Will continues to murmur with accentuated lightness. “She’s-”

He hesitates as he feels the settling weight of implication. Finds himself staring at the doctor’s profile and slowly rights himself on his stool.

“-probably not supposed to be posing nude for clients,” he resumes drawling in his attempt to distract from the suddenly awkward feeling in the air. “I mean, apart from breaching some kind of professional standard, it’s a huge ass cock tease, right?” He scoffs a bit too loudly, returning to making little marks on paper with his pencil. His company says nothing, and they continue to draw in silence. Will feigning indifference at the lack of conversation even whilst a distracting thudding begins beneath his ribs at the one thought that has taken reign over his mind since he’d answered for the doctor. That the man had been testing his own sexuality. The timing of which seems too much of a coincidence for his questioning not to be linked to their having become acquaintances. And therefore implying he could have feelings for Will. Confused ones, sure, but there nonetheless. Just like him.

++++

That night, Will can’t sleep. Lying on his back, he reaches for his phone on the bedside table and checks the time. The bright light of the screen makes him squint as the digits inform him of the early hour. Immediately, he wonders if the doctor is still awake, and memory takes him back to the man’s polite smile as he stood at his front door, bidding Will farewell under the portico before shutting himself from sight. A touch more quickly than last time. At the end of their drawing session, he had chided Will about not doing his homework, but he was able to sense a distraction in those dark eyes as they regarded him briefly before looking away again. Nothing like the first time they had met when, seething with irrational rage, those black slits had threatened to sear him alive. It intrigued him to no end, and made him restless at the thought of having to wait another week to witness the sea change in the man who had not so long ago broken into his house because of anger issues.

Regardless of whether or not the doctor had become aroused from drawing his nude psychiatrist, Will dwells on the thought of the other questioning himself. Imagines him lying in bed late at night like he is now, thinking of him and wondering why – why he finds himself affected by Will’s presence. By his face, perhaps. His form. He has been told by women he has an attractive weight to his hindquarters, and wonders if his own sex has considered the same – if any gay male colleagues at work have ever glanced approvingly at his behind in his close fitting work trousers. But more significantly, if the doctor had ever taken note like he has, whenever the man stood with his back to him in those tightly tailored garments of his. Will has always given the impression to others of being a typical straight white American male, and has not deviated from this description until now. Other men had never interested him the way the doctor has, for some reason, and whilst it does feel unexpected, especially coming now in his later years, as opposed to the more conventional age range of self-discovery, he feels less troubled by his newly discovered fascination than he is driven by curiosity to see where this will lead.

_He’s seen my dick_, Will thinks to himself with lofted eyebrows. One of the first things the man saw when he’d kicked down the door of his bathroom, and proceeded to sketch in his own time further down the line._ Who does that?_ Only someone who has a degree of interest in him, surely. And considering he was peeping on Will having sex with Margot that night – sexual interest. Which he is hesitant to make known, Will muses to himself. Probably because it has come as a surprise to him, even as the elder gent. Or because of that. So much so, that he made that crazy request to his shrink – though the bigger shock would lie in her agreeing to said request. The other never did answer his question when he was round fixing the door of his workplace: _so did you get a semi drawing me?_ But the way he almost dropped the door is answer enough, Will tells himself as he chews thoughtfully on his bottom lip. The first twinges beginning beneath the cover. Closing his eyes to the ceiling, he thinks of the doctor’s face as he sits at his desk, drawing as he waits for his next client. Imagines those already tight trousers growing even more restrictive as he becomes aroused the more he pencils in the hard ridge of Will’s head, shades in the stark veins spanning the turgid sides of his shaft. Sure, he was flaccid in the real sketch, but maybe, amongst the papers hidden in the man’s desk drawer, there is this unapologetic version. One that he would never allow anybody to see, and behave even more defensively over. _Fuck._

Eyes slipping open, he glances down at his erection tenting the cover. Pushes it aside until he can tug his boxers out of the way and fist the rigid appendage that snaps back against his belly. Its head already damp. Licking his lips, he stares with lidded eyes into the space in front of him, imagining the other doing the same. Lying there with his underwear and pyjama bottoms bunching at his thighs as he wraps his hand around himself – the artist callouses of his digits rubbing at the sensitive skin of his cock. Thin lips parting to his quickening breaths as he starts to beat one out in earnest. A look of confusion twisting his face as he goes faster. _Ugh…Mr Graham…_ Exhaling raggedly, Will increases pace. _Touch me, Mr Graham…just like this…_ Swallowing and licking his lips convulsively, he pauses and gropes for his phone lying atop the covers. Heart hammering in anticipation of the risk he is about to take, he selects the doctor’s number. Starts a video call.

++++

A sound stirs him from his sleep, and he rolls over in bed to find the screen of his phone aglow. He doesn’t recognise the tune and has to pick it up to realise he has an incoming video call. From Mr Graham. At 3am. Blinking the sleep from his eyes, he pushes up into a sit against the headboard and, after a moment of deliberation, accepts the call. He expects to see the man’s face when the connection is made. A look of surprise, perhaps, when the other realises he has dialled the wrong person, followed by a quickly uttered apology for disturbing Hannibal before the call abruptly ends. When the window for the video call opens, however, he is not greeted by a face. Brow knitting, he finds himself gazing through the spikes of his uncombed hair at a penis clasped in a hand as it moves hurriedly up and down in the dim glow of lamplight, the sight of which makes his thumb twitch with the instinct of ending the call, if not for the fact that the caller ID had been unmistakably labelled. In the silence of his bedroom, the sound of shallow breathing coming through the speaker is disturbingly clear. Without a doubt, the man has dialled the wrong person, and Hannibal tells himself to snap out of watching the hypnotic movement and end the call.

“Dr Lecter…?”

He hesitates at the sound of the other’s voice. Pitched low as it labours for breath. A quick tap with his thumb removes his own smaller window, hiding him from the other’s sight.

“Yes?” he answers, own voice devoid of emotion as he tries to understand what this is, exactly.

“Just checking you’re there…”

Remaining quiet, Hannibal continues listening to his heavy breathing. Eyes on the hand that continues to choke over and over that large and bulbous head. His excitement – gleaming in the dim lighting – dribbling freely from the eye to catch on the backs of his knuckles. Hannibal doesn’t say anything further. Neither does the man speak again. Choosing instead to pleasure himself faster until his hand becomes a mere blur of motion and slick within the window. The increasingly guttural grunts heralding his impending climax punctuating the air of Hannibal’s bedroom until, without warning, a suppressed groan escapes through the speaker, accompanied by the visual of thick, creamy ejaculate exploding erratically from the head of that pulsating member. A great lashing of it coming into direct contact with the camera lens.

“Oh shit,” comes the hiss, and Hannibal sees the pad of a thumb swiping at the camera before he is suddenly greeted by the other’s face. Pillow tousled curls. Blue eyes half drawn. Lips agape. His cheeks flushed pink in the yellow of the lamplight. A picture of post-orgasm stupor. Caught off guard, Hannibal continues to stare mutely at the screen. Watching his mouth close to an undulation in his throat before it opens again to his recovering breaths.

“…are you still there?” he utters lowly, eyes glancing aside with uncertainty. Heavy eyebrows beginning to draw together. He should have ended the call, Hannibal thinks to himself. Now he must reveal his participation through passive viewing. Yet it had been an active choice not to have touched the red circle with his thumb. As the pause stretches out, the more restless that countenance on the screen grows. The more restless he himself begins to grow.

++++

Jaw flexing at the other’s silence, Will feels the sudden and unpleasant pang of regret like a sharp wave of heartburn. Unable to look up at the self facing camera, he is ready to end the call when he hears the doctor speak up.

“Yes.”

His voice is quiet. Unreadable. And coming so late that Will has almost forgotten what he is saying yes to. Clean hand slipping defensively onto his nape, he glances up into the camera. Wets his dry lips and lets them part without knowing what he wants to say. _Sorry? I’m drunk? Pretend you never saw that?_

“Sleep well, Mr Graham.”

He inhales, about to reply when the window vanishes, indicating the call has ended. Continuing to stare at the home screen with his mouth agape, Will eventually releases the breath he had been holding and glances down at the mess he has made. He was ready to feel the pain of embarrassment, and yet, slumped with his head against the headboard, he finds himself buoyed by a feeling of hope. Of a small, modest modicum of excitement to arise from the fact that he had just jacked off in front of the doctor. And that said doctor had supposedly watched every minute of it. And not ended the call.


	7. A Good Red

Encouraged by the doctor’s response – or lack of one, really – Will turns up to their next drawing session with a bottle of good quality red. As the front door opens, he stands there running a hand through his curls and holding up his offering which the other regards blankly.  
“Is this a special occasion?” the man asks, receiving the bottle with both hands whilst Will stands on his doorstep with his hands in his coat pockets.  
“Does it have to be?” he asks in return with a nonchalant shrug, watching those hooded eyes as they study the label.  
“Thank you,” he says simply before stepping back to let Will in.

++++

The first thing that had hit him as he opened the door was the overbearing wave of cologne. Mr Graham smelt as though he had doused himself in the unfortunate scent before stepping out of his house, and Hannibal could not help wondering what had possessed the man to believe it was a good thing to do.

As they settled into their places in the living room, he considered opening the windows for some air, for the cologne was really starting to hang upon him like a heavy weight each time he leant in to explain or correct one of the other’s lines.  
“Would you mind,” he begins to say, glancing askance to find blue eyes staring at him, “if I opened a window?”  
A blink as though the man is stirring himself from his thoughts.  
“Sure,” he answers, eyes returning to his sketch.  
  
++++

Looking up from the paper, he glances back over his shoulder at the doctor stood before the window directly behind them. His gaze travelling the length of his waistcoat to hover over the shape of his behind beneath those close-fitting trousers. He hears the sound of the window being opened, followed by the shifting of the other’s feet as he makes to turn around, but Will doesn’t look away. Eyes flicking up, he meets that dark gaze and smiles. Just a little. Just enough to make his interest known.

++++  
  
Once more, he finds himself being watched, and is quick to divert the attention back to the other’s sketch. The man folds his arms as he listens and nods along to his explanation, but Hannibal can feel those eyes boring into the side of his face. When he has finished explaining, a hand snakes out from where it had been tucked to take the pencil from him. He is not able to let go fast enough, and their fingers end up brushing.  
“You mean,” the other begins to murmur, feigning indifference at the contact as he proceeds to make the changes suggested by Hannibal. “Like this…?”  
  
++++  
  
Will finds it amusing, the way the doctor pretends not to notice the attention he is giving him, and he finds himself wondering if he will have to resort to some truly outlandish behaviour just to get a reaction. He tries to continue with the session, but soon grows impatient with the one-sided eye contact. It’s clear the man won’t be making the first move. It’s up to me, then, he tells himself as he puts his pencil down.  
“I could do with a drink,” he states, resting his hands atop his thighs and looking over to make sure he has the attention of those hooded eyes. “My drawing will definitely look better after,” he chuckles lowly whilst that dark gaze takes in his work.  
“Are you sure?” the man asks with just a hint of playfulness in his voice, and Will leaps on it with a lick to his lips.  
“Sounds like you could do with one too,” says Will as he folds his arms with a grin.  
“Impairing my judgement won’t make you a better artist,” the other counters matter-of-fact, and Will knits his brows, puts on his best pleading face.  
“Maybe you’ll give me more credit for my choice of wine,” he says, brows lofting.  
“Maybe I won’t,” returns the doctor, lidded eyes regarding him with faint amusement.  
“Or maybe you will,” Will drawls, voice quiet. Low. Loaded with suggestion. He allows his smile to remain on his lips as he watches the other watching him. Slowly, he moistens his lips again before speaking. Keeps them parted just a fraction longer as he holds that gaze. “Let’s try it,” he murmurs.  
  
++++  
  
It seemed to him that the other was not going to take no for an answer. And so he got up from his stool and walked, together with Mr Graham, into the kitchen. The bottle was opened and two glasses poured and tasted before the man made himself comfortable by leaning his arms upon the granite surface and striking up casual conversation. Hannibal engaged with this idle chitchat, sipping slowly from his glass as the other finished his somewhat quickly. When asked, he admitted it was indeed a good quality red, and encouraged by his approval, that smile deepened and those blue eyes fairly glittered as the bottle was picked up and their empty glasses refilled with a loud clink. When he led the way out of the kitchen, he heard the bottle being dragged along the worktop.  
  
++++  
  
Reclining against the settee, Will glances over to the doctor sitting at the other end, his hooded eyes lidded as he studies the table in front of them and the subject of their long abandoned drawing session sat atop it. Own eyes half drawn, Will continues to wait for the other to meet his gaze, his right hand splayed and stroking slow and idle against the rich material of the upholstery.  
“So you like it, then,” he asks, watching the shape of the other’s lips against the rim of the glass as he takes another sip. The way they press together as the glass lowers and the man swallows.  
“Yes,” he answers, and Will takes another sip from his own glass as he waits for the doctor to say something else. After a moment of silence, Will turns his eyes to the ceiling.  
“Have you been to see your therapist?” he asks casually.  
“Not yet.”  
Will hums then lifts the glass to his lips.  
“Why not.”  
“The need has not yet arisen.”  
Will hums again, his mind on other needs and other things arising. He tips the glass. Nothing. Realises it’s empty and reaches for the bottle on the table beside him. As he pours himself another, he feels eyes on him and turns his face to catch the doctor glancing away. _Are you playing hard to get, Dr Lecter?_ The bottle is beginning to feel light in his hand.  
“Would you like a refill?” he asks, despite the fact that the other is still clutching a half glass. _Say yes and I’ll come closer._  
“I’m alright,” the man answers, and Will shrugs, lofting his brows at the bottle in his hand.  
“More for me,” he chuckles.  
  
++++  
  
He should’ve taken the bottle instead of letting the man empty it of its remaining contents. But he had a feeling Mr Graham would not be giving it up so easily, and did not want to get into a conflict of sorts which would likely involve some reckless physical contact. A hand grabbing his wrist if he made to take the bottle, for example. Except now he has more to worry about because the other is suddenly standing up and swaying slightly on the spot as he fumbles with the buttons on his shirt.  
“Mr Graham,” he begins to say, but when those blue eyes look over to stare drunkenly at him, he knows the man will likely not be inclined to respond to his perturbed expression and tone of voice.  
“I think it’s time you drew me like one of your French girls,” he slurs, hands still working clumsily on the buttons of his shirt, yet he has managed to free enough to expose some of his chest.  
“There is no need,” says Hannibal, standing up.  
“I think there is,” drawls the other, and Hannibal turns his face as he puts down his glass, uncomfortable with the way half drawn blue continues to stare at him with such intent. The sound of fabric being tossed upon the upholstery draws his attention, and he faces the discarded shirt lying half on the settee, half on the floor like a crumpled skin. He doesn’t look at the man, but the sudden rasp of leather and clink of buckle makes Hannibal press his lips together.  
“I insist, Mr Graham,” he says, stepping up to the other with lifted chin and catching hold of his wrists to stop him unfastening his belt. “There is no need.”  
“I insist, Dr Lecter,” the man murmurs, head lolling back as he continues to gaze at him through his lashes. “There is.”  
The hands twist out of his grasp to latch onto his own wrists before Hannibal feels himself being tugged forward. He grunts as he feels their chests colliding. Followed by their mouths.  
  
++++  
  
The moving sensation stirs him, and opening his eyes slowly, Will finds himself looking at a road lit up by headlights. His head is pounding and he grimaces as he lifts a hand to touch the source of the ache, fingertips prodding blindly at a bump. He feels the seatbelt pulling snug against his chest and glances to the doctor sat beside him in the driver seat, his hands on the wheel. His eyes on the rolling asphalt.  
“My head hurts,” he utters groggily, lowering his hand back into his lap. He can’t remember why, though. Or how he ended up in the car.  
“It’s just a bruise.”  
“Mph.”  
He continues watching the road for a while.  
“Where are we going?” he eventually asks.  
“I’m taking you home,” the doctor answers.  
Will frowns. That had not been the plan.  
“Why?” he murmurs, unable to mask his disappointment.  
“You’re not in a very good state, Mr Graham.”  
“It’s Will,” he mumbles, leaning the side of his head against the passenger window as he gazes glumly through the windscreen. He lifts his hand again to rub idly at his head, brow knitting as he tries to recall the last thing that happened. _We were on the settee. I was standing. Trying to…take off my clothes?_ He covers his eyes with his hand. _He tried to stop me and I…tried to kiss the guy? But I can’t remember if we did or not._  
“I, uh,” he begins to say, fully intending to apologise for what happened, when he is gripped by a sudden wave of nausea. “Stop the car,” he utters hurriedly instead, “I’m going to be-”  
The car jerks to a sudden stop as he just about manages to throw open the door and stick his head out. The night air is filled with the sound of a running engine and Will emptying the contents of his stomach onto the curb. When he has finished, he lifts his eyes to see his house, and heaves a sigh. Wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, he unbuckles himself and sits there for a moment with his hands on his knees.  
“I don’t suppose you want to come in for a coffee,” he says after a while, eyes downcast. _This really wasn’t what I had planned._  
“Get some rest, Will.”  
It sounds nice when he calls him by his first name.  
“Yeah,” he says, turning to climb slowly out of the car. Trying not to put his foot in his own vomit as he steps onto the curb. Turning around, he rests a hand on the roof of the car and leans down to stare at the leather upholstery. “Thanks for the lift,” he says, running his other hand through his curls.  
“It’s not a problem.”  
He glances up at the neutral tone of his voice. Sees the doctor watching him without expression. Hooded eyes holding his gaze a moment longer before dropping, and Will looks away too.  
“See you,” he utters, pushing off the car the same time he shoves the passenger door shut.  
  
++++  
  
Through the passenger window, Hannibal watches Will turn around and begin to shuffle towards his home. He averts his eyes to the road ahead. Wonders if he should step out and take him up on his offer. He could just sit at the kitchen table and have a coffee with the man as he sobers up. But he might start talking, eventually asking how he got that bruise on his head. Maybe he will put two and two together anyway, but Hannibal doesn’t like the thought of admitting to taking one of his decorative ornaments to the other’s head. He had been surprised, caught off guard, and acted without thinking. And he didn’t like that. Yet, neither does he much like witnessing the other’s dejection. He could always leave if the man started asking questions, he thinks to himself. It wouldn’t be the first time, running away from the house. As he deliberates, he hears the quiet sound of a door shutting and, looking towards it, realises Will has already gone inside.  
  
++++  
  
His dogs are happy to have him back. Leaning against the door, he listens to the car pulling away before letting his head fall back against the hard surface.  
“I don’t think I’ll drink wine again for a while,” he murmurs quietly to his furry friends.


	8. Lunch Break

Come Monday evening, Will finds himself in the waiting room outside the doctor’s office. He had come straight after work and there had been a client already sat in one of the chairs, reading a magazine. Dressed in a long coat with a cashmere scarf draping over his shoulders, Will had recognised him as the young man from last time, and when he closed the door behind him, the other had looked up and smiled politely before returning his eyes to the page. Whether or not he had recognised Will, he was probably too polite to make a joke about the door. As he’d sat down across from him, Will could not help noting the contrast in their class and demeanour. He doubted this guy ever asked anyone to stop the car so he could empty the contents of his stomach onto the curb. Exhaling inwardly, he folds his arms and leans upon them as he waits. Soon, the door to the office opens and he sits up straight. The doctor greets the young man before turning his eyes on Will. Forcing a small grin, Will lifts a hand in greeting. Hooded eyes return their attention to the client who puts down the magazine and walks towards the door held open for him. Preoccupied, the doctor doesn’t look his way again when he closes the door, and Will leans back in the chair. Waits patiently for the door to open again.

++++

When he opens the door, he sees Will stirring in his seat, head lifting from where it had tilted back against the wall as though he had fallen asleep. He bids his client a good evening and waits as the man heads towards the exit, exchanging nods with Will on the way. As the door closes, he looks at Will who is still watching the door as though contemplating doing the same.  
“I’m sorry to keep you waiting,” he says. “You didn’t tell me you were coming.”  
He watches Will stand and put his hands on his hips. His eyes still on the door.  
“I could come back,” he says, turning his face to meet him in the eye before looking just past his shoulder. He seems to be trying hard not to appear uncomfortable. Hannibal opens the door a little wider.  
“Come on in, Will,” he says.

++++

Running a hand through his hair, Will steps into the office, deliberately avoiding looking at the doctor stood holding the door open as he paces towards one of the armchairs.  
“What may I help you with?” the other asks, and Will looks over his shoulder to watch the man closing the door – looks away before the doctor catches him watching.  
“I’ve come to apologise,” he begins to say with his hands on his hips as he stands there watching down at the armchair. “For Saturday.”  
“Has it been troubling you all this time?”  
At the question, Will takes a breath. _I waited all yesterday for a text._  
“Thought it would be better to apologise in person,” he says. The doctor moves to stand before the other armchair.  
“Would you care to sit down?” he asks as he lowers himself into the chair, but Will remains standing. He watches the doctor settling with a crossing of his legs and lifts his eyes to see that dark gaze looking up at him. “Please.”

++++

Hannibal watches Will lower his hands from his hips and move to sit down in the armchair across from him.  
“I had meant to ask earlier,” he begins to say, taking in that slightly worried expression on his company’s face. “But had not wished to appear too forward.”  
The faint knot in the man’s brow unfurls.  
“Ask what?” he says quietly, his tone a touch hopeful. Hannibal clasps his hands in his lap. Lowers his gaze to the other’s knees.  
“I wondered whether you wish to become a client of mine,” he explains. “Perhaps you have not been comfortable with making such a request yourself.” At the lack of response, he lifts his eyes to see a frown pinching that face.  
“You think that’s the reason I’ve been coming to the drawing lessons?” he asks lowly. Indignant. Hannibal senses hurt in the other’s voice and means to say something to perhaps alleviate that unintended response when Will stands up and begins to step away, then pauses with his face turned to the side.  
“I don’t need a fucking shrink,” he utters, and Hannibal stands as the other begins to stride towards the door. He watches as, stood before it, Will grabs the handle and stops. Puts his hands on his hips again and turns around. His blue eyes glaring.  
“Why didn’t you end the video call?” he demands to know, and Hannibal hesitates, unsure of how to answer.  
“I wished to know how far you would go,” he ends up saying, which, apparently, is not the right thing to say, for Will now looks askance with his heavy brows drawn tightly together. His jaw flexing before he speaks.  
“I think you’re the one who needs to speak to someone.”  
At the half angry assertion, Hannibal tilts his head whilst maintaining an impassive countenance.  
“Oh wait, you already do,” Will continues to say, brows lofting. “Maybe next time you should talk instead of asking her to pose naked for you.”

++++

He knows he shouldn’t have said that. It was petty and disrespectful of what the doctor had confided in him, but he was disappointed by the almost clinical response. Disappointed by his own stupidity. Facing the door once more, he opens it and sees himself out without waiting. Can’t help noticing the lack of an attempt to stop him. No words to delay his leave. Nor does he hear the sound of the office door opening again from behind him by the time he reaches the waiting room exit.

++++

A fortnight goes by and Will pretends he hadn’t been spending all that time trying to get to know the doctor. Trying to pursue the man because he thought he was interested. It had been humiliating being offered his services like he was in need of help. There are better ways to let someone down, he thought to himself with a frown. He threw away his sketchbook. Paused. Then dug it back out the bin again. Flicked through it halfheartedly, each page reminding him of being at the doctor’s house. He made to throw it in the bin again, but instead tucked it away somewhere out of sight. He got on with his usual routine and went to work. Went on a date with Alana. That wasn’t so bad. But when she started to message him, he thought about the number he hadn’t deleted. It was still sitting there in his contact list. Every time he went to delete it, he hesitated, telling himself he might actually be in need of a therapist one day. Or at least, that was the excuse.

++++

Saturday afternoon, and Hannibal is drawing in his living room. He is sat alone with no other company except for his glass of wine. It has been two weeks and he still hasn’t moved the extra drafting table. Perhaps a part of him hopes that, after the initial anger, Will will change his mind and ask to resume their drawing lessons. There is no reason why they can’t still enjoy the sessions as teacher and student. Sitting back, he watches the empty stool and drafting table as he sips slowly from his glass, realising just how quiet it is without the other’s company. Setting down the glass, he glances at the ornament sat on the side table. Moves his hand to touch the edge of its base. He never did apologise for striking the other with it.

++++

Some time later, Will receives a text message during his lunch break at work. At first, he thinks it’s from Alana, but when he pulls the phone from his pocket and looks at the screen, it’s not her name he sees.

**410-609-5666: Hello, Will. Are you alone?**

He stares at the message until a greeting from a fellow colleague entering the staffroom stirs him into returning the gesture somewhat distractedly, his eyes glued to the screen still. _What’s this about?_ Curious, he walks out of the staffroom and into the men’s toilets. Leaning against the sink, he types his response.

**Yes**

Sends it a bit too eagerly. So sends a follow-up immediately after.

**Why?**

He receives an incoming video call. Answers it.

The camera is facing away from the caller, and Will recognises the interior of the doctor’s office. From this angle and distance, he presumes the other is holding the phone at his desk. At the other end of the room, someone is lying on her back on the chaise lounge. An older woman dressed in smart attire. A client, Will presumes. Through the speaker, he can hear the quiet but distinct sound of snoring. It appears the client has nodded off during their session. Scoffing softly to himself, Will is ready to comment on the breach of privacy when the camera lowers and he catches sight of the drawing on the desk. Sees his own angry profile sketched in pencil before the focus falls on something too patterned and close up for him to make out. Then the phone moves back enough for the camera to focus, and Will realises he is looking at the doctor’s crotch.  
  
He lofts his brows in surprise, lips parting as he sees a hand moving into shot to palm the bulge tenting the tight fabric of tailored trousers. _Okay_. Pushing off the sink, he hurries into a cubicle, locks the door, and sits down on the toilet seat. Leaning his arms upon his knees, he sits there hunched over the phone as he watches long fingers slowly working open the front of those trousers. Suddenly, he hears the snoring pause in the background and sees those digits falling still. When the snoring eventually resumes, those fingers carefully pull down the zipper before pushing aside the ends of his shirt. Will licks his lips as they slip past the tight band of his underwear, the fabric stretching to accommodate the shape of the doctor’s hand as he fists himself. Between the flat of his lower abdomen and the taut fabric of his boxer briefs, Will is given a glimpse of the pink head of his penis peeping out from his partially retracted foreskin. Under the natural lighting of the room, the slit gleams with the other’s excitement, and he swallows as the hand moves, the clutch of his fingers pulling down to reveal more of his swelling head. _Fuck_.  
  
His trousers had been steadily tightening as the call continued, and now his fully erect cock is trapped in an uncomfortable angle. Using his free hand, he tugs at the fabric to ease some of the tension, only to be shown the doctor pressing the pad of his thumb into the slick – and proceeding to roll in tiny circles. Snatching a breath through his nose, Will arches back against the toilet. _Fuck_. His eyes dart to the time in the corner of the screen before he fumbles onehandedly with his belt. The restroom door opens and Will mutes the call but continues to fumble with his trousers. Pushing down the band of his underwear, his penis twangs up against his stomach as he hears the sound of someone whistling while urinating on the other side of the door.  
  
But he keeps his eyes on that rolling thumb. On the way it lifts up to show him the clear thread of pre-cum, the sight of it making him bite his lower lip to stifle a groan. He wishes the restroom was empty so he can crank up the volume to listen for the sounds he imagines the man making – or would be making if he didn’t have a client lying in close proximity. As though his thought has jinxed the other, however, the camera moves abruptly, and Will finds himself staring briefly at what appears to be the ceiling before the call is ended. Groaning inwardly, he falls back against the toilet, knees apart, left hand still wrapped around himself. From the other side of the cubicle door, the whistling comes back, louder than ever once the sound of running water ends, and Will sits there, waiting for the guy to finish with the hand dryer before the sound of the restroom door opening and closing tells him he is alone.  
  
Standing up, he slips his phone into his back pocket and faces the toilet. Lifting the lid, he steps closer to the bowl, left hand bracing against the wall of the cubicle as he grasps himself with his dominant hand. Closing his eyes, he thinks of the doctor slumped in his desk chair, his hooded eyes half drawn as he watches his client – but thinks of Will as he continues to jerk himself off. His uncut cock leaking as he tugs faster. He’s going to make a mess over his smart suit. He’ll have to be lightning fast cleaning up. He should stop, but he can’t. Because he wants to come to thoughts of Will pinning him to that chaise lounge. Letting slip a muffled grunt, Will moves his hand at breakneck speed. Feels his digits becoming slippery. The build-up peaking fast.  
  
“Fuck!” he hisses as he feels his shaft thickening, the tight circle of his fingers rubbing back and forth for that last ounce of sweet friction needed to tip him over. Eyes slipping open to images of the doctor superimposed over the toilet seat, he presses his lips together to stifle his groan as he tries his best to direct the erratic spurts shooting thick and fast from his cock. He’d come to the image of the man ejaculating all over himself. Of hooded eyes snapping shut as thick lashings of it hit that sharp cheekbone and landed in his immaculately combed hair.  
  
_I had meant to ask earlier, but had not wished to appear too forward._  
  
Standing there with his dick still in his hand, Will closes his eyes and swallows.  
  
_Ask what?_  
  
He wasn’t sure of the time.  
  
_I wondered…_  
  
He is most likely going to be late for his lecture.  
  
_Whether you wish to become more closely acquainted._  
  
But he didn’t care.


	9. Prosciutto

Come Saturday, Will finds himself on the doctor’s doorstep. He had not messaged beforehand nor called. But there the man is, opening the door and giving nothing away with his calm countenance.  
“Will,” he says in greeting, and Will finds it tricky to stop the smile from creeping onto his own face at the sight of that nonchalant gaze. Ever since that video call, he had not stopped smiling at the thought of this other side to the man. A side he had let Will glimpse in the form of a cheeky, protocol defying video conducted in the middle of a work day. In his lecture immediately after, all he could think of was the doctor hurrying to discreetly hide his erection from his waking client.  
“Hey,” says Will with a grin. “You look good,” he adds, taking in the immaculately combed back hair and equally immaculate three-piece.  
The man continues to look at him for a moment, as though not entirely sure what to make of the compliment.  
“Thank you,” he says eventually, half drawn eyes travelling down Will’s person before lifting back up to meet him in the eye. “So do you.”  
At the comment, Will feels a tug at the corner of his lips and runs a hand casually through his hair.  
“Thanks,” he says, a touch quieter than before.  
“Would you like to come in?” the doctor asks as Will continues to stand there on the doorstep with his hands in his pockets.  
“Sure,” he replies casually. A show of indifference to the invite as the other steps back, allowing space for Will to step in.  
As he follows behind Hannibal down the corridor, he passes a side table and sees a couple of tickets sat atop it.  
“Going out tonight?” he says offhandedly, looking up from the tickets to see the doctor stepping into the kitchen.  
“Yes.”  
Pausing at the threshold, Will makes a noise of acknowledgement and leans against the doorframe as the other makes his way to the coffee machine.  
“Are you a fan of the opera?”  
Hooded eyes look over at him.  
“I don’t know,” says Will, lofting his brows. “Never been.”  
“Would you like to?”  
“Are you in need of company?” he asks, voice a little lower than before. A little suggestive, even.  
“Not tonight, unfortunately,” answers Hannibal with a polite smile, his eyes returning to the coffee machine. “Would you like a coffee?”  
“Sure. No sugar, thanks.”  
A pause as Will watches the other. Shifting on his feet, he folds his arms before leaning once more against the doorframe.  
“So who you going with?” he asks.  
“My therapist.”  
“Ah.” _The naked woman in his drawing_.  
“Does it strike you as being unorthodox?” Hannibal asks with his eyes still on the machine.  
“No more than drawing a nude of her,” Will utters before quietly clearing his throat. “It’s what I’ve come to ask, actually.”  
Hooded eyes look in his direction.  
“You wish to draw a nude of my therapist?” he asks with a lofting of his invisible eyebrows.  
“Would she let me?” Will asks in return, eyebrow raising playfully.  
“Perhaps if you-” the doctor begins to say then stops himself.  
“Became a client?” Will finishes for him, recalling the last derogatory comment he’d made on his way out of the other’s consulting room. “I think I’ll pass,” he adds, pushing off the doorframe and beginning to pace further into the kitchen. “I can’t justify paying out the nose for the privilege of seeing a woman naked,” he scoffs.  
“Many do.”  
“I don’t,” says Will, stepping up to the countertop beside the other and leaning back against it with his arms folded still. “Or, I don’t have that kind of money.”  
He glances askance to find dark eyes watching him from the corners.  
“I don’t,” he says again with a shrug. “I’m a lecturer. I don’t drive Bentleys and have sex with women on the way to the opera.”  
“After,” the other corrects him, removing a cup from the machine and holding it out to Will.  
“Sounds like a fun evening,” says Will drily, taking the cup and grazing those fingers with his own.  
“You know that we are not-”  
“Sexually involved,” Will interrupts the doctor to finish his sentence, glancing aside as he sips from the cup. Swallows and licks his lips. “You said. I’m just teasing.” He chances a look at the other. At that profile as the cup is lifted to his sharp lips.  
“So what is it that you’ve come to ask?”  
As that lidded gaze looks his way, Will diverts his own and takes another sip of his coffee. After, he looks down into the dark contents of his cup.  
“That video,” he begins to say after a long pause, voice hushed and low. “What did you mean by it?” Slowly, he looks over at the other. Finds the doctor looking ahead as he lifts the cup to his lips again. Will waits for him to finish drinking. Observes the movement of his lips and the subtle undulation of his throat.  
“There’s an art exhibition on next Saturday,” he says instead of answering Will’s question. “I should very much like it if you were to join me.”  
“Is it a date?” Will asks curiously.  
“No.”  
“Sure, I’ll come.”  
Leaning back against the countertop, Will takes another gulp of his coffee.  
“Without the drawing lessons, I wouldn’t have been doing much anyway,” he adds.  
“There is capacity in my schedule,” the doctor states, and Will feels that tug at the corner of his lips again.  
“Yeah?”  
“Yes.”  
“Great.”  
For a moment, neither says anything as they stand there in the kitchen, drinking their coffees. Running out of his beverage, Will licks his lips. Is about to ask if he can have another, just to stick around for a bit longer, when the man beats him to it.  
“Would you care to join me for lunch?”  
Reining back the smile breaking on his face, Will looks over at that profile again.  
“What are we having?” he says.  
  
++++  
  
The doctor had taken his time preparing lunch. Everything had to be done perfectly. Will didn’t mind. He had mostly been watching. When they finally sat down at the ostentatious dining table, he had asked for the salt to be passed down, only to realise, when he saw the man pausing with his mouth half open and ready to receive the morsel on the end of his fork, that his joke had been taken seriously.  
  
“Just kidding,” he’d said, looking down the table at that expressionless face. “It’s nice.” Had put another piece of ham – prosciutto he assumed – into his mouth before mumbling a further, “very nice.” And grinned.  
Following lunch, they’d sat in the room where they did their drawings, nursing new beverages. After what happened last time, Will had been a touch hesitant to accept the glass offered him, but there was a post-lunch ease in the air. An ease in the doctor’s manner, the way he had joined Will on the settee. And it had been, after all, only one glass.  
  
++++  
  
He started to ask Will about his work. Even though he had already done his research and knew the other lectured forensic science, he enjoyed hearing the man describe it in his own words. Continuing to ask probing questions, he moved off the settee and sat down at the drafting table. The other continued to answer as Hannibal swapped his glass for a pencil. Looked up to see the man sat back on the furniture, legs apart, glass resting atop his thigh. His face turned to the side. A frown creasing his features.  
  
++++  
  
“They call it interpreting the evidence,” says Will, moving his hand up to stroke his jaw.  
“What do you call it?”  
The question triggers a series of rather horrific images and he shakes his head and closes his eyes for a moment to rid himself of the bodies crowding to superimpose themselves against the décor of the room.  
“What do I call it?” he repeats the question, looking over at the doctor. Lowers his eyes to the hand holding a pencil to paper. “Are you drawing me?”  
Hooded eyes look up.  
“No.”  
Looks down again.  
“Let’s see then,” says Will, getting up and walking over to the drafting table. Standing beside the other, he puts a hand on his hip as he looks down at the paper. Inhales involuntarily and takes a step back.  
“What…” he stammers lowly, staring at the mishmash of mangled body parts depicted in intricate detail.  
“I wasn’t drawing you.”  
Will looks down to meet those hooded eyes.  
“No…” he utters, gaze moving reluctantly back to the image. “Just what I see. How did you…”  
“I read up on your lecture notes. They are available online.”  
“Right.”  
To steady his nerve, Will swallows the rest of his wine.  
“You’re very…observant,” he says with his brow knitted still as he recognises several cases’ worth of victims thrown together in an oddly elegant composition.  
“You are very detailed in your notes,” says the other.  
Will hums and is suddenly struck with a morbid curiosity.  
“Do you want to try drawing something not in my lecture notes?”  
“And by that, do you mean, a case that has not been used as an example in your classes?”  
“Yeah.”  
“Interesting.”  
“Do you want to try?”  
“If you are happy for me to.”  
Glancing askance, Will meets that half drawn gaze. Although the man’s expression remains neutral, there is a slight tilt of curiosity to his head.  
“Don’t feel you must continue if it makes you uncomfortable,” he says, and Will lofts his brows at the other.  
“It’s not therapy.”  
The doctor looks off to the side, lips parting to a retort.  
“I’m not paying you,” Will quickly adds.  
“That won’t be necessary,” states the other amiably. “Please, take a seat.”  
  
++++  
  
He should have known it was a bad idea. Reliving the scenes can be like opening a floodgate. Or at least, that was always how Will had imagined it. If he allowed himself to lift the latch. Processing cases for the purpose of teaching required a removed approach. A certain detachedness from the horrors captured in glossy photographs. But outside of work, those images remain with him. Sometimes replaying themselves in his mind. Sometimes making it hard to sleep. With his calm and accented voice, the doctor managed to persuade him to wade deeper into those memories, until he started to feel it closing around him. Pulling him under.  
“Will.”  
He jerks up from the settee with a gasp, eyes snapping open. The doctor is sitting on the edge of the furniture.  
“It’s alright,” he says as Will catches his breath, his eyes roving around the room to confirm he is definitely out of the dream.  
“Did I fall asleep?” he asks confusedly, looking at the other. “I heard your voice…” He realises his clothes are sticking to him and pushes up into a sit. The doctor stands to give him space. “Shit,” he curses under his breath as he notices the front of his shirt has soaked through with sweat.  
“Would you like to take a shower?”  
Will looks up.  
“I don’t have a change of clothes…” _A shower._  
“I can put them in the dryer.”  
“I guess,” says Will, watching that unreadable expression. _Will you be coming in too?_  
“If you require underwear-”  
“It’s sweat, not piss,” says Will flatly.  
“Still. I have freshly pressed-”  
“I’m good, thanks.”  
  
++++  
  
“That’s a lot of freshly pressed underwear,” Will mutters to himself as he stands there with a towel wrapped around his waist, looking inside the man’s drawers. Curiosity makes him pick up a pair of boxer briefs and examine the label before holding them against himself. They’d probably fit. Towelling himself off, he slips them on. _Feels nice._ Glances into the full length mirror. _Bit short. Are they like this on him?_ Tugs on the front. _Bit tight on the package_.  
“I’ve put your-”  
“Jesus!” cries Will, half jumping out of his skin. “The hell did you come from?” he says defensively with his hands on his waist. Across from him, the doctor is stood at the threshold with his hands in his trouser pockets.  
“Apologies. You left the door open.”  
“Right,” Will utters, watching the other watching him, and trying to read that expressionless face. _Are you checking me out just now?_ He is suddenly conscious of the way he is standing. Legs apart. Hips jutting forward ever so slightly. Wearing just the borrowed shorts. _I see you looking_. “Sorry, you were saying?” he asks smoothly with a slight lift to the chin.  
“I’ve put your clothes in the dryer,” says the other. “They will be ready soon.”  
“Right.”  
“You are free to borrow a robe while you wait, if you wish.”  
“Sure.”  
Will watches the man step into the room – _his_ room – and walk towards a wardrobe by the bed. Opening the door, he removes a robe from its hanger and closes the door again before stepping up to Will.  
“Try this on for size,” he says, and Will takes the plush garment between his hands. _Fuck, that’s soft_.  
“Thanks,” he utters, pulling the robe over his shoulders but leaving it open.  
“If you don’t mind, I’m going to start getting ready,” says the doctor. “Please make yourself comfortable.”  
“Sure.”  
He starts to make his way to the door as Hannibal moves to sit down on the end of the bed. For a moment, Will watches the other begin to untie the laces on his shoes, then steps out of the room before the other catches him hesitating.  
  
++++  
  
Waiting until he hears the pad of feet travelling in the direction of the ensuite, Will pushes off the wall and turns his face to peer past the doorframe. He catches a brief glimpse of the other’s naked back and rear end before it slips out of sight into the bathroom. The sound of running water can be heard coming from within, and slowly Will creeps up to the gap in the door. As the steam begins to swirl its way out, he looks in.  
The doctor is stood with his back to him. Although the glass doors of the shower stall are beginning to blur with steam, Will can make out the shape of him stood beneath the spray. The way the water hits his head and cascades between his shoulders. He watches as the man runs his hands through his hair before reaching for a bottle and emptying some of its contents into a palm. From the position and movement of his arms, Will can tell he is working the suds into his chest and along his shoulders first. Then lower, over the stomach, and further down still until, in the gap between his thighs, Will spies the other lathering up his tackle. A hand reaches for the bottle again, and more cream is squirted into the palm before it reaches back to cup the globes of one shapely ass. Lips remaining parted after he licks them, Will stares as those long fingers push the slippery soap into his crack. Swallows involuntarily as they rub back and forth. His eyes falling to the pale rivulets running down the insides of the man’s thighs. A pained groan escapes his throat and his hand darts up to clasp over his mouth. He watches the doctor pause, and immediately flattens himself to the wall beside the door.  
After a moment, he stealthily makes his way out of the bedroom and onto the landing and down the stairs when the doorbell goes. Freezing on the step, Will looks down at himself. Sees the flushed head of his dick poking out like an escapee through the front of his borrowed underwear and, letting out a yelp of surprise, tugs the edges of his robe closed before hurrying the rest of his way down the stairs. Without being seen, he makes a beeline past the front door, his bare feet slapping noisily down the corridor as he opens various doors. Eventually finding a toilet, he locks himself inside.  
  
++++  
  
Standing over the toilet with the seat up, Will braces a hand to the wall as he hurriedly jerks off. Through the door, he hears the doorbell ringing again, followed eventually by the sound of the doctor making his way down. There’s the sound of the front door being opened, then words of greeting are exchanged. It’s a woman’s voice, most likely belonging to the man’s therapist, though Will cannot make it out so clearly from his end of the corridor. Or maybe he’s just breathing too hard. _I’m close…_ Eyes shutting, he thinks of Hannibal stood in the shower washing out his crack. Imagines those hands reaching back to grab a cheek in each palm, his fingers digging into the wet surfaces as he arches his back and slowly pulls them apart. _F-!_  
“Urgh!” he cries out before he can stop himself, hand trying its best to direct the torrent of cum exploding from his dick. _Fuck!_ As one spurt ends, another bursts free until he is stood hunched over and twitching in front of the toilet.  
A knock on the door startles him, and he spins around on the spot, dripping cum onto the floor from the drooling head of his penis as he checks the door is definitely locked.  
“Will?”  
The doctor’s voice.  
“Yeah?” he answers, lifting his covered hand and glancing at the sink.  
“Are you alright?”  
Snatching some loo roll with his clean hand, he starts dabbing at his waning cock. _Can’t you go down any faster?_  
“I’m fine,” he calls.  
“We heard a groan.”  
_We? Well that’s just great._  
“I think I ate too much prosciutto,” he rambles, cursing inwardly at the seemingly never-ending beads of cum oozing out of him. _Come on, it’s not been that long, has it?_  
“Prosciutto?”  
“That thing you made.”  
A pause.  
“It was nice,” Will adds hurriedly. “I just ate too much of it. I’ll be out in a minute.”  
He listens for the response, hoping the man isn’t stood on the other side with his therapist.  
“I have your clothes.”  
“Great! Just leave them at the door, thanks.”  
When the sound of those footsteps have left the proximity, Will exhales and washes his hands in the sink before peeling tissue fluff from his dick and tucking himself back inside the boxers. The damp spot from earlier is now cold and he shudders as he puts the toilet seat down. Presuming the close to be clear, he unlocks the door and inches it open. Sees his clothes neatly folded and sat waiting for him on the floor.  
  
++++  
  
Hannibal pauses midsentence and turns his face towards the corridor. Excusing himself, he leaves Bedelia sipping wine in the living room and follows after the creeping figure.  
“Will?”  
The man stops and, slipping his hands into his trouser pockets, turns around.  
“Hey,” he says brightly. “You seemed busy, so…”  
“Would you like to meet my therapist?”  
A frown pinches the other’s face.  
“Oh, no, that’s okay,” he says, removing a hand from its pocket to clasp the back of his neck. “I’m not sure I can look her in the eye after-” he begins to drawl before stopping himself. “You look good,” he says instead with a frown, nodding. “I’m going to head off. Thanks for lunch.”  
“I’m sorry it didn’t agree with you,” he says, and the man stops mid-turn.  
“What? Oh, right,” Will utters, hand returning to itch his nape. “No. I just ate too much. It was really nice.”  
That grin.  
“I shall remember to give you less next time,” says Hannibal.  
“Or I can be less greedy,” says Will, his lips a twitch at the corner.  
When Hannibal doesn’t comment, he sees those blue eyes giving him another onceover.  
“We don’t have to wear suits to the exhibition do we?” Will asks casually.  
“You can wear what you like,” he answers amiably, and the man scoffs before folding his arms.  
“While you’re looking like that?”  
“Like what?”  
“Nevermind.”  
“Wear whatever makes you feel comfortable, Will.”  
“I’m not sure they’d let me in then,” the other snorts quietly.  
“I’d let you in,” says Hannibal.  
A pause as those eyes lower then lift again to meet him.  
“Yeah…I meant my birthday suit?” Will utters, voice low and faintly mischievous.  
Hannibal tilts his head a little.  
“Must be a nice one.”  
Dark brows loft.  
“I look forward to seeing it,” he adds, holding that gaze until the other suddenly stirs himself and looks away with a scoff.  
  
++++  
  
That night, Will replays the things the doctor had said. _I’d let you in… Must be a nice one… I look forward to seeing it…_ And inevitably gets horny thinking about the man stood there in his opera finery. Or rather, the way he would look falling onto the chaise lounge – he was becoming quite fixated with the damn thing – all dishevelled from Will’s manhandling. Lying on his back upon the bed, he glances at his phone sat on the bedside table. Picks it up. As expected, there are no new messages from the guy. He doesn’t know how far into the opera they must be by now, but doubts Hannibal will check his phone during the performance anyway. Not around company. Maybe when there is an interval. And he uses the bathroom.  
_  
Fuck it._  
  
With his free hand, he reaches over to turn on the bedside lamp before looking down at the serious tenting in his borrowed underwear. Shifting to get a good angle, he lifts the phone, takes a photo, adds the text:  
**  
I’m an XL**  
  
And sends.  
  
He continues to lie there on his back as he waits, imagining the man’s face when he reads the text. The more than likely zero expression. Which Will presumes is a front of sorts for that devious side to the doctor. Smiling lopsidedly at the memory of that video call, he fondles himself through the thin material of the shorts until the glow from the phone screen alerts him to a reply. Just one word.  
**  
Peaches & Cream: Where?**  
  
Eyes lidding, Will snorts softly in amusement before thumbing his response.  
  
**Are you asking to see the D**  
  
Typing…  
  
**Peaches & Cream: Why would I need to see a doctor?**  
  
He snorts again, louder this time.  
  
**Guess you’ll find out**  
  
Typing…  
  
**Peaches & Cream: Is that a threat?**  
  
Chuckling to himself, Will folds an arm behind his head.  
  
**Maybe**  
  
His thumb hovers over the screen for a moment before tapping again.  
  
**Could be a promise**  
  
Typing…  
  
**Peaches & Cream: A promise to make me seek medical attention?**  
  
“Well when you say it like that, it does sound like a threat,” Will utters under his breath. Biting his bottom lip, he types and sends:  
  
**With the D**  
  
Typing…  
  
**Peaches & Cream: No need. I’m a trained doctor.**  
  
“Christ,” he laughs quietly before rapid-firing an explanatory  
  
**No**  
  
**D means**  
  
Tugging on the waistband, his hardon springs up against his belly and he fists his own girth at the base before pointing his camera at it. Captures the whole thing in perfect detail. And sends.  
  
For a good while, he doesn’t get a reply. Then, just as he is about to nod off, it finally comes through.  
  
**Peaches & Cream: You may have inadvertently exposed yourself to some mature bystanders.**  
  
Laughing sleepily, Will texts back:  
  
**Should have opened in private**  
  
Typing…  
  
**Peaches & Cream: It did not come with a warning**  
  
Before his eyes slip to a close completely, Will sends one more message.  
  
**Come with warning**  
  
**Got it**  
  
And falls asleep with a smile on his lips.


	10. Exhibition

The art exhibition turns out to be an exhibition of the doctor’s work. Will doesn’t realise this until he’s at the venue and reading the man’s name off the display boards.  
“Why didn’t you say?” he says as fancy looking guests start coming their way. “I would’ve put on a tie or something.” He knew he should’ve worn a suit. Not that there was anything wrong with his blazer and trousers combo. But everyone else was wearing a suit.  
“It’s fine,” says the doctor and Will quickly grabs a flute from a passing tray.  
“It’s not,” he utters, taking a gulp. “I look like a college lecturer.”  
“You are a professor.”  
“Which means I’m poor,” says Will flatly.  
“What you lack in material wealth, you make up for elsewhere.”  
“Is that how you plan to introduce me?” scoffs Will. “This is Will Graham. Lecturer for the FBI. He has a giant cock.”  
“If it would make you feel better.”  
“Maybe,” he utters, raising the glass to his lips. “I already feel better just imagining you saying it.” He glances askance to see the other smiling at the approaching guests. “Amongst other things,” he adds under his breath.  
Before the man can respond to Will’s suggestive comment, the pack descends, and Will finds himself plastering on his sociable smile and sticking his hand out whenever someone claims it’s a pleasure to meet his acquaintance.  
  
++++  
  
Picking up another canape, Will looks over to see the doctor speaking with another cluster of people, and returns his attention to the buffet. His phone vibrates in his pocket, and he takes it out to see a message from Alana. Without much to do, Will takes his plate over to a corner and texts her back. By the time he’s finished his canapes, the doctor has moved off to another part of the venue, leaving Will to walk around on his own with his hands in his pockets. Stopping in front of a drawing quite randomly, he makes to sip from his flute only to realise it is empty and glances around for the waiter. It’s true the boy had looked at him pointedly as though to say, _can you slow down, please_, the last time he’d gone up for another drink, and when Will had said in response to that look, “The canapes are really salty,” the other had simply replied, “Then maybe you should stop eating them.” Brows lofting, he had picked up an extra glass from the tray before turning around with an audible, “rude”.  
  
_Ahah. There he is_. Spotting the waiter, Will begins to head over when someone steps up to him.  
“Come with me.”  
At the sound of his accented voice, Will makes a show of looking around them.  
“Where’s your flock?” he asks but the other has already started walking away. Following after, he plonks his empty glass on the edge of a table before quickening his steps. The doctor hurries down a narrow corridor before suddenly taking a left.  
“Hey, wait up,” says Will, breaking into a jog. When he rounds the corner, he sees the other entering a restroom at the end of the empty corridor and hurries after.  
Pushing through the door, he catches the back of the doctor walking into a cubicle and follows after.  
“What’s the-” he begins to say upon reaching the cubicle only to find himself being dragged inside by the front of his blazer. Stumbling forward, Will grabs onto the other’s arms to steady himself before the door closes behind him and he is suddenly shoved backwards against it. “Whoa,” he utters in surprise, staring at hooded eyes that are busy looking down at something. “What’s this a-” Also looking down, his brows loft as he watches long fingers working open his belt. “Okay,” he says laughingly with a lick to his lips. Going along with the sense of urgency, Will braces his hands to the cubicle walls as his hardening dick is pulled free. “Christ,” he murmurs as he watches the doctor dropping to his knees. Without warning, the man’s mouth is on him, and a ragged breath escapes Will’s lips as he looks down to see his cock being swallowed whole.  
“Fuck,” he gasps at the heat and wet glide of his tongue. At the sight of those cheeks hollowing and the sensation of the other sucking on him like he is dying of thirst. “Did I drink all the champagne?” Will jokes breathlessly before a groan bubbles out of his throat at the tight squeeze of fingers around his shaft. “Fuck, slow down,” he groans again, moving a hand off the wall to snatch at those combed tresses. “You’re going to make me come-”  
Dark eyes look up at him as his tongue darts out from between his parted lips to trace repeatedly the circumference of his head before thrusting its pointed tip into the precum beading at the eye. Cursing, Will snatches at the man’s head with both hands now as he pushes off the door. Chest beginning to heave, Will looks down into hooded eyes as he begins to thrust into the doctor’s mouth. Bites back a curse as he feels himself butting against the back of his throat, opening it up further with each push that’s deeper than the last as he tests the man’s gag reflex. The muted sounds of choking suggest he isn’t used to this. Or the size. And sure enough, Will starts to see a glistening in those eyes staring up at him. Those sharp lips stretched to their limit around his girth as he continues to piston back and forth, forcing a quiet and muffled grunt from the doctor each time he slams back into his throat.  
“Fuck,” he grits through his teeth. “I’m going to-”  
He feels the other swallowing the same time he rams his head home, the sweet pressure tipping him over the edge until, shaft thickening spasmodically, he snatches tight at those tresses as he pumps his heavy load down the man’s throat. His shout falls immediately into a pleasured moan as he feels his pulsating cock being drawn by that greedy mouth like it cannot wait. Will cannot believe how good the doctor is at giving head. Would say it if he wasn’t so busy groaning his pleasure as his come is sucked clean out of him.  
When he’s finally released, Will laughs lowly and still a little breathlessly as he tucks himself away.  
“Well that was unexpected,” he says, zipping up and beginning to do his belt. He notices the doctor avoiding his gaze as he runs his hand through his hair, combing the tresses back into place. “Hey,” he utters, drawing those eyes to him as he puts his hands on the man’s hips and steps forward to press the other against the wall. “Where did you learn to do that?” he murmurs, leaning his arm by the doctor’s head as he gives him a slow once-over with his half drawn eyes.  
“My therapist,” the man answers.  
“Yeah?” says Will, raising an eyebrow at that impassive countenance. “Thought you guys weren’t-”  
“Joking.”  
Exhaling at the sight of the faintest smile to appear on those lips, Will leans closer.  
“Tease,” he murmurs, dropping his gaze down the other’s body. “Next you’re going to tell me that little performance of yours didn’t do anything for you…”  
Hooded eyes watch him from the corners. Will is leaning close enough to see individual eyelashes.  
“What makes you say that?” he says in a quiet voice, and Will feels his lips tugging at the corner.  
“Because you’re being coy,” answers Will lowly, lips close to his ear. “Aren’t you, doctor?”  
He palms the man’s penis through his suit trousers. Starts to rub him through the tailored garment.  
“Is this what you’ve been thinking about all evening?” Will utters, holding that dark gaze. “Did it get you so hot and bothered, you had to come running back?”  
  
++++  
  
“I didn’t ru-mph,” Hannibal fails to finish as that hand squeezes him hard.  
“If I have my way with you,” says the voice in his ear. “You won’t be walking let alone running.”  
He stares into lidded blue.  
“Have you ever been with a man, Mr Graham,” he says in quiet challenge.  
“Irrelevant,” comes the immediate reply. “I’m only interested in one. Even if he does like to play games.”  
He feels his belt being jerked open and the zipper being tugged down before a hand shoves past the band of his underwear to fist his cock. The pad of his thumb rolling over his head.  
“So wet…” the man breathes hotly against the shell of his ear. “Just from sucking my cock…”  
“I suspect you enjoy speaking in such a vulgar manner,” he murmurs, hands resting against the wall as he lets the other stroke him with increasing pressure.  
“I don’t hear you complaining,” says the voice gruffly before Hannibal feels himself being pulled off the wall and spun to face the toilet. An arm crosses over his chest, pinning him to the body behind. He can feel the other’s arousal digging into his rear as that hand works to free him fully from his underwear.  
  
++++  
  
Tugging the band of his underwear behind his balls, Will spits a fat glob of saliva into his hand before fisting the doctor’s cock once more. The sound of him pleasuring the other fills the empty restroom, slick and obscene as he pumps that dick with the wet tunnel of his hand. As those hands come up to brace against the cubicle walls, Will presses his lips to the other’s ear again.  
“I’ll get a sound out of you yet,” he murmurs, tightening the circle of his hand and upping the pace. He feels the man beginning to arch deliciously against him. His ass pressing harder against his crotch through the tight material of his tailored trousers. _Damn_.  
“Will…” he hears the man quietly pant his name and tightens his arm across his chest. Licking his lips, Will goes faster still, spurred by the sound of the doctor referring to him by his first name.  
“You gonna come for me, doc?” he half growls through his teeth, listening to the other’s breath growing fast and shallow. “You gonna blow your load right here while people are admiring your work outside?”  
  
++++  
  
At the reminder of his guests, Hannibal closes his eyes. Focuses on the feel of the other’s hand on him. His presence. His breath against his ear.  
The restroom door opens abruptly, accompanied by chuckling. Hannibal catches Will’s wrist to hold back the flood even whilst the anger begins dangerously to well again at the sound of their voices.  
  
++++  
  
Will feels the doctor stiffening in his arms and despite the grip on his wrist, gives the man a playful squeeze before slowly resuming. On the other side of the door, the men can be heard using the urinals.  
“I’m not surprised he spent a fortune on champagne,” says one of them. “It’s the only way to stop us from analysing his work too harshly.”  
“Speak for yourself,” says the other. “I won’t let good food and drink blind me to the glaringly obvious. The man’s an egotistical charlatan.”  
Will holds still, his brows drawing together.  
“The others seem to like him.”  
“The women like him. But I can see straight through the guy. Wait till the after party.”  
“After party?”  
“The critics’ after party.”  
“Ah. Is Christina Rossi invited?”  
“Of course.”  
“God, that woman’s hot.”  
“Tell me about it. She’d better not be raving about this pile of tosh, though.”  
“She can rave all she likes. I won’t be paying attention anyway.”  
“I see what you’re saying.”  
They snicker amongst themselves. By the time the men have finished up and left, the doctor has freed himself of Will’s clasp and put himself away. Watching the other’s back, Will exhales quietly and steps up to put his hands on those hips encouragingly.  
“Hey,” he says gently. “They’re just a bunch of assholes.”  
The man turns around without meeting him in the eye and walks past him to open the door. Watching him step out, Will follows after.  
“Who cares what they think?” he tries again, folding his arms and leaning his hip against the sink. That profile, however, tells Will the doctor does care. A lot. Even if his face doesn’t show it. Will can feel the upset even as the other tries to distract from it by vigorously washing his hands.  
“I’m leaving,” the man says, turning off the tap and snatching a paper towel from the dispenser.  
“Alright,” Will utters, watching him.  
“Feel free to stay if you wish,” he says, scrunching up the paper towel, his dark eyes looking at nothing in particular.  
“Can I get a lift with you?” asks Will.  
There is a pause as the doctor appears to deliberate his request. Then take a breath.  
“Of course,” he answers quietly, hooded eyes downcast. Before Will can say anything else, the man has turned from the sink and, tossing the balled up paper towel in the bin, walks out of the restroom.  
  
++++  
  
They don’t talk during the drive to Will’s house, and if not for the classical music playing quietly through the radio, they would have sat in silence for the entire duration. Glancing sidelong at the doctor, Will reads the same upset as he’d read in that normally unreadable expression back in the restroom of the venue. Recalls the last thing he’d said just before those assholes interrupted them: _You gonna blow your load right here while people are admiring your work outside?_ It was as though he’d jinxed it.  
When they stop outside his house, Will opens the door and climbs out. Turning around, he rests his hand on the roof of the car and leans down to look at the other.  
“Come in for a bit?” he says with a knitted brow.  
Dark eyes slip slowly away as gloved hands remain on the wheel.  
“Please?” he says, putting on his best pleading smile as those eyes finally find their way back to him.  
  
++++  
  
As he makes the coffee, Will looks over his shoulder to see the dogs fussing over their guest. At first, the doctor ignores them as he sits on the settee and continues to brood in silence. Eventually, however, the bigger one starts to get close enough to drape a forearm over his leg, making the man lean back with a mild look of discomfort as though he has only just realised there are dogs in the room. Coming over with the mugs, Will shoos them away before sitting down beside him.  
“Here,” he says, offering a mug to the doctor who receives it with a thanks. Lifting the mug, Will takes a sip of his coffee as he watches the other over the rim. He hears a buzzing sound, but doesn’t pay much attention to it.  
“Your phone,” says the other when it does it again.  
“It’s probably just Alana,” he says, taking another sip.  
“She didn’t come.”  
“Nah.”  
“Did you invite her?”  
“Mhm.”  
Swallowing, Will watches his dogs. They can always tell when he’s lying. They were there after all when he’d complained about the doctor suggesting Will brought a friend along to the exhibition if he wanted. _I mean, sure, it’s not a date. I know that. But still._  
“She’s busy,” he adds, lifting the mug again. “But she likes your work.”  
“Hm.”  
He watches the other take a sip of his coffee.  
“I like your work.”  
Hooded eyes look up at him, filling him suddenly with an urge to return to that heated moment in the cubicle when the man had arched so beautifully against Will and panted his name.  
“You have to,” says the doctor quietly. “You’re my student.”  
Will watches the other lower his mug and stand up from the settee before making his way to the kitchen. He leans forward to intercept the dogs and shoo them off before getting up himself.  
“Yeah, well,” he drawls, coming up to stand beside him at the sink. “Doesn’t change the fact I’m learning from the best.”  
“Are you trying to placate me, Will.”  
At the hushed sound of his voice, Will feels a stirring in the depths of his belly.  
“No,” he says, setting down his mug and facing the doctor. Stepping forward, he backs the other against the kitchen unit. Braces his hands against the edge on either side of him. “Now I am,” he utters, grabbing the man’s belt. When he feels hands closing around his wrists, he twists out of their grasp before returning the gesture. Pinning the doctor’s hands behind his back, Will presses their bodies together and turns his face to murmur against his ear.  
“That video call…what were you thinking?”  
“It was a risk.”  
“No,” says Will in a lower octave, undulating against him. “Tell me what you were thinking about. What made you spring a boner in front of your client…”  
“The woman you were having sex with,” the man finally utters after Will grinds his hips slowly into him.  
“Margot?”  
“Your face…as she rode you.”  
Bringing his face round, Will gazes at those sharp lips.  
“Do you want to see it again?” he murmurs, lifting his eyes.


	11. Do You Like This

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter intended to be read to the song 'Excited' by Travis Atreo X Aftrhours: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eFlBira3b34

_Car windows black no one is seeing in_  
_And baby you got me so high_  
_You got me so high_

The dogs try to follow as they venture upstairs, getting under their feet and almost tripping them up as they crash against the walls on their way up like a chaotic game of pinball – Will’s hands grabbing and wrestling the suit jacket off Hannibal’s arms before dropping it amongst lolling tongues and wagging tails. His body pinning the other’s against the wall as he leans in to bite that lower lip and gets a mouthful of his jaw instead.

_The smoke is rising and I'm feelin' it_  
_And baby you want this tonight_  
_You want this tonight_

When the other stumbles further up the steps, Will holds on with his teeth like a stubborn animal as his hands paw impatiently at the row of buttons on that waistcoat. Only by falling down onto the landing does the doctor manage to dislodge himself from the bite, and as he lies there, legs seeking purchase on the stairs, Will bears down hard, his fingers snatching that half-open waistcoat as the man starts to slip down the steps. Throwing a quick look over his shoulder, Will finds the culprit pulling on the other’s trouser leg.

“She’s trying to help,” he chuckles at the Labrador. 

“She’s ruining my trousers.”

Facing that expression of disapproval, Will undulates his body against the one trapped beneath him and presses his lips to the other’s ear as he hurriedly plucks open the rest of that waistcoat.

“That’s the least of your worries, doc,” he murmurs lowly.

++++

_You_  
_I don't mind it_  
_If you need your space_  
_Need your space_

Having made a quick job of removing his own clothes, Will steps up in his boxers to bat Hannibal’s hands away and take over unbuttoning his shirt.

“You ever done this before?” he says, yanking off the garment as he takes a step forward to back the other against the edge of the bed. As the doctor topples, Will falls with him until they both land with a grunt upon the cover.

_You_  
_When time starts flying_  
_Don't let this go, go to waste_

“Not with a man,” Hannibal answers, watching up at him with half-drawn eyes, and Will curses under his breath before pressing up and grabbing the other’s shoulder. Pushing him over onto his stomach, Will moves down his body and off the bed entirely as he takes hold of that waist with both hands and tugs to bring those long legs over the edge. Kneels on the floor as he grabs the waistband of those expensive boxers.

_Tell me if I'm going too far_  
_Tell me if I'm going too far_  
_Do you like this?_

“What about this?”

Pulling down the shorts, he grabs the man’s ass and spreads him open before pressing his tongue against his anus. A grunt escapes, muffled by the cover, and Will uses his thumbs to pry open that puckered entrance before pushing in. He feels Hannibal clenching instinctively around him and groans as the sensation sends a jolt straight to his dick. _Fuck, he’s tight_. Lifting his head, he looks down the line of his back until he reaches the bowed head and arms bracing against the bed. _Guess that means no, I haven’t been rimmed before_…

“Don’t move,” he says, standing up. “I’m getting some lube-”

“It’s fine.”

_Cause I can see the love in the dark_  
_Yeah I can feel the beat in your heart_  
_You like this_

Will pauses mid-step and looks down to see that tousled head lifting from the cover and turning to the side.

“Trust me,” he chuckles, hands moving to his hips. “Nobody does anal dry.”

“Please.”

The smile disappears from Will’s face as he watches the man press his sharp cheekbone to the bed. One hooded eye looking back at him.

“Are you serious?”

“Yes.”

“You might-”

“Hurry, Will.”

That plea, spoken calmly with an undercurrent of urgency and a hint of breathlessness, makes Will twitch in his shorts and lick distractedly at his lips.

“Alright,” he utters under his breath.

++++

_Tell me if I'm going too far_  
_Tell me if I'm going too far_  
_Do you like this?_

He feels the heated puff of Will’s exhale blowing against his nape as the man stops, his cock finally buried to the root inside him. With nothing but a thin layer of rapidly drying saliva, the other had breached his body slowly. Carefully. A fraction at a time. During which, the alien and uncomfortable invasion had distracted his mind from straying back to the restroom of the venue. Back to those voices. 

“You okay?”

_Cause I can see the love in the dark_  
_Yeah I can feel the beat in your heart_

The breathy whisper behind his ear pulls him from his thoughts like a hand on his arm, leading him away, and he closes his eyes, body arching impatiently.

“Please hurry,” he sighs quietly.  
  
_When you get excited_  
_Yeah, yeah, yeah_  
  
“Slow down,” Will murmurs, and he feels a hand reaching round for his flaccid penis. Catching his wrist, Hannibal redirects it to his hip. Leans forward – the abrupt movement eliciting a sharp gasp from behind – before pushing back against that warm body. A loud curse mingles with the soft groan escaping his lips as he feels himself tearing. Feels fingers digging into his hips, holding on as they fail to slow him.

_When you get excited_  
_Yeah, yeah, yeah_

++++

He curses again as the doctor fucks himself onto his cock, his hands, useless at stopping those relentless hips, moving down to spread those cheeks for his own viewing pleasure. As Hannibal continues to impale himself on his length, Will stares down at the tiny red rivulets running from his stretched entrance. Knits his brows as they begin to flow with increasing abundance. _That’s got to hurt_.

_I'm so addicted to your innocence_  
_And baby you got me so high_  
_You got me so high_

“Han,” he begins to utter, but the man continues to move aggressively against him. “Slow down,” he tries again, voice strangled and breathless from the sensation of being milked by that hot body. _God, you feel incredible.._.

_My body's covered in your fingerprints_  
_And you can do just what you like_  
_Do just what you like_

“Fuck me, Will.”

_You_  
_I don't mind it_  
_If you need your space_  
_Need your space_

He glances up at those words. Sees Hannibal watching back at him over his shoulder. A pained expression pinching that normally impassive face. His lips parted to his own shallow breaths and suppressed grunts tumbling forth each time their hips crash together again.

_You_  
_When time starts flying_  
_Don't let this go, go to waste_

“Please,” he pants, and the sight of the doctor looking at him with such need and desperation is enough to push aside his concerns. Lips pressing together, he puts his hands on the other’s hips.

_Tell me if I'm going too far_  
_Tell me if I'm going too far_  
_Do you like this?_

“Sure?” he asks.

“Ruin me, Will.” 

_Cause I can see the love in the dark_  
_Yeah I can feel the beat in your heart_  
_You like this_

Jaw flexing, Will responds to those provocative words by pulling out. Then slamming back in.

++++

_I decided_  
_This is no mistake, no mistake _  
_So let's try being quiet_  
_We both know_  
_There's no way_

Lying on his side upon the rumpled cover, Will stares through his lashes at the back of the other’s head as he tries to catch his breath. Their bodies are still joined, and he is hesitant about pulling out and causing Hannibal discomfort, especially after discovering the man’s loss of arousal towards the end. He had reached under as he felt himself nearing, with intentions to bring the doctor with him to the edge, only to find his dick shrunken into himself. About to ask if he’s okay, Will feels Hannibal beginning to move from under his arm.

_Tell me if I'm going too far_  
_Tell me if I'm going too far_  
_Do you like this?_

“Where you going?” he says, hand moving down to grip gently over his hip.

“May I use your shower?”

At the request, Will dips his head to press his lips to the damp nape in front of him.

_Cause I can see the love in the dark_  
_Yeah I can feel the beat in your heart_  
_You like this_

“Won’t it hurt?” he mumbles.

“I don’t feel clean.”

“We can have one later…”

When the other remains quiet, he gives his hip a small squeeze. 

_Tell me if I'm going too far_  
_Tell me if I'm going too far_  
_Do you like this?_

“I’ll take it out soon. Just waiting for it to go down.”

He pauses.

“You should have said stop if-”

“I’m fine.”

“Just don’t want to put you off or anything.” 

“It was fine.”

“Well it would’ve been more than just fine if you’d have let me get the lube,” Will utters. “Pretty sure blood isn’t supposed to be a substitute for anything let alone anal sex...”

For a moment, Hannibal doesn’t say anything. Then:

“I think you’re about to slip out.”

_Cause I can see the love in the dark_  
_Yeah I can feel the beat in your heart_

++++

Which is precisely what the doctor tries to do some time later. Waking to a subtle stirring beneath his arm, Will opens his eyes as the other moves away. Sees the man finding and pulling on his underwear before the feeling of being watched makes him look over.

“Morning,” says Will without knowing what the actual time is.

“Morning,” says Hannibal as he resumes looking for his clothes.

“Did you want to use the shower?” he asks, pushing up into a sit.

“I’ll have one when I get back,” comes the reply, and Will runs a hand through his hair to distract from the first twinge of disappointment.

“I’ll make us some coffee,” he says, climbing out of bed as the other walks past on his hunt for the rest of his garments. He sees the man pausing with his shirt in his hands, his hooded eyes examining the damage.

“Sorry about that,” he utters, pulling on his shorts and moving to get a tee from the drawer. “Is it missing a button?”

“A couple.”

“Oh.”

Pulling the tee over his head, he stands there watching Hannibal getting dressed, and feels like a spare part.

“I’ll look for them later,” he says, lingering on the spot as he itches idly at his chest, wondering if that taciturn demeanour is a sign of regret. Growing restless listening to the soft rustle of hands buttoning, smoothing, and tucking things back into place, Will starts walking towards the door. “I’ll put the kettle on,” he says on his way out. 

++++

At the sound of feet coming down the stairs, Will looks up to see Hannibal running a hand through his hair. There’s a comb in the bathroom, but it doesn’t seem the other has time to be dilly-dallying in his house. The kettle starts to rumble. When it clicks, the doctor is already at the door. Having watched the man make his way over without looking at him, Will knows he has one mug too many sitting on the counter.

“See you later?” he speaks up when he sees that figure pausing. The dogs have gone up to sniff at his trouser leg. Their wagging tails a contrast to the crestfallen mood Will tries to bury as he reaches for the jar of instant coffee.

“Yes.”

He hears the front door opening and closing, and puts down the coffee to walk over to the window. Pushing aside the curtains, he watches Hannibal climbing into his car and slamming shut the door. The engine comes to life and the vehicle pulls away from the curb. He watches until it disappears into the distance, then turns back to the kitchen. 


End file.
